Growing Up Winchester
by jojospn
Summary: A series of one shots chronicling the lives of the Winchesters from Sam's infancy up until Sam's 18th year. Can be in any particular order. Would love to take requests, but please no Wincest or slash. Thank you! Characters include John, Bobby, Mary, or anyone who was around when the boys were little.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I know this concept has been done before, but I wanted to tackle a version of it myself. It's basically going to be a series of one shots chronicling the lives of the Winchester brothers, from Sam's infant years up until their teens/young adults. Requests are welcome! Just, please, no Wincest or any slash related requests. I hope you enjoy, I've never tried an open ended type series before. Thanks to my "regulars" who are always there with a lovely comment and words of encouragement! You know who you are! Thanks also to those who have read/reviewed, followed, or added my work to their favorites list. I truly appreciate the amazing support! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_ **just borrowing the boys.**

**Chapter 1 –After the Fire**

Dean held his baby brother in his arms, as tightly as the little boy dared. It was unusually bright for nighttime. Normally, when the sun went to bed, it was really, really dark. But the little boy was surrounded by splashes of colour: reds, blues, the orange of the fire in Sammy's nursery. Though he didn't want to admit it to Daddy, and especially not to his little brother, but Dean was scared. Mommy was gone, Daddy looked sad, and Sammy… well, he wasn't really saying anything. He'd even stopped crying, his wide eyes gazing up at his big brother with curiosity. Feeling the wetness from his eyes, Dean cradled his brother against his chest, snuggled in the warm blanket the firefighter had been thoughtful enough to give them. "It's ok, Sammy," he said softly, enjoying the warmth of the six month old as he grasped at Dean's tiny figure. "I know Mommy went away, but I'm gonna be here for ever. I promise!" The child cooed, as if acknowledging Dean's words, and closed his eyes, hidden behind large lashes. For a while, Dean looked down at the now sleeping baby, taking comfort in the tiny creature. "I promise," he whispered, gently kissing Sam's downy forehead.

They sat there for a long time, sitting on top of Daddy's black car, the 'pala, he had heard Daddy call it. He looked up at his dad, who looked like Dean had when he had gotten lost in the grocery store not that long ago. _He misses Mommy,_ Dean thought, and he felt a strange feeling in the back of his throat, the one he always felt when he was trying really hard not to cry. _ I miss Mommy too. I want Mommy! I wantmommyIwantmommyIwantmommy…._ Dean looked down at baby Sammy again, and smiled softly. He still felt very sad, but with his brother in his arms, he felt better. Maybe holding Sammy would make Daddy feel better too?

It was dark now. The policemen and firefighters had almost all left, except for a few that were staying behind to make sure the fire that had taken Mommy was out. Dean looked up at his Daddy again; he had tears in his eyes. Daddy was crying, just like Dean had. And Sammy had made Dean feel a little better. In a tiny voice, barely above a whisper, Dean called to his father: "Daddy?"

"Yes, Dean." Daddy's voice sounded sad too. _Poor Dady._ "Wanna hold Sammy?"

"I'm sorry, Dean. He must be getting heavy." Dean tried not to cry again. He was a big boy now, almost five. And big boys didn't cry. Even those who lost their mommies. But he didn't want Daddy to see him cry. 'Cause then maybe he would cry too. And daddies _really _didn't cry. "No, Daddy. But when I hold Sammy I feel a little better. And maybe if you hold him you wouldn't be so sad."

Daddy looked down at Dean with a strange look: was he mad at him? He didn't mean to make Daddy angry; he'd only wanted to help. But instead his dad smiled at him, his eyes still looking sad but not so lost. "Maybe you're right, kiddo," Daddy said, ruffling his blond hair. Gently, so not to wake him up, Dean passed his baby brother to his dad, who started to cuddle with him, playing with his tiny fingers and toes. Like Mommy used to do. The three of them sat there on Daddy's car until finally some nice strangers told them about a place where they could sleep until the house was fixed up. Buckled in the back seat of Daddy's big, black car, still holding on to his new, fuzzy blanket, Dean reached out for Sammy's finger, listening to the soft sound of the baby breathing in the car seat beside him.

"It's ok, Sammy," he said again. The baby opened his eyes, looked up at his big brother, and smiled. "Don't be scared. I'm gonna be here for ever and ever. I promise."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This one is for mb64 who had three requests (all great ideas, btw!) The one I chose was Dean's first day of school, and both Sam's and John's reactions to Big Brother/Firstborn going off. Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy it! Thanks for the review too, hun! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural, **_**and am not making profit from this story. All right's reserved.**

**Chapter 2: Independence**

John had never seen such a mixed array of emotions on a kid. He'd expected the typical first day of school jitters from Dean, it was a normal part of growing up, but today… well, John Winchester had never seen a child look so lost in his entire life. There was the typical hint of excitement (after all, what kid didn't look forward to meeting new friends, showing off new, shiny school supplies, the glow of excitement the first time the bell rang for recess…but that thrill of novelty was practically non-existent for his little boy.

Dean stood in front of his new school, dressed in his new jean jacket and ridiculously expensive Superman backpack John had somehow managed to buy his son. He had known it would be hard for Dean to step away from the security of his father and little brother, but he had hoped that a new backpack of his favorite superhero would somehow alleviate the anxiety he was feeling. No such luck. The little boy stood, terrified, staring at the brick building with wide, green eyes. Clutching the brown bag lunch in his little fist, slowly Dean backed behind his father, hiding behind his back and burying his face against the warm leather. It was comforting, familiar, _safe._ School was cold, frightening, new, and maybe even dangerous. Who knew what monsters were hiding there? Daddy had told him about how some monsters were real, and Daddy's job was to find them before they scared or hurt other little boys and girls. What if there were monsters in the school?

John sighed, gently peeling the child away and nudging him to the building; already children were running around the playground, the other kindergartners exploring their new territory eagerly. The sight reminded John of a pack of wolves, and he immediately regretted having shared even minimal details of his job to Dean. God, if _he _was having misgivings about sending the child to school, it would be understandable that the child would be terrified. But he had no choice. The boy needed an education, not only to gain some form of normalcy but for practical reasons as well. To hunt meant to be educated, in ways more than just learning one's ABCs. Not to mention the much needed social skills that come with going to school, meeting new people.

"Dean-o, you have to go to school, buddy."

"Don't wanna." Dean continued to bury his little face in his father's shoulder, trying to make himself as small as possible. Christ, it was hard enough for John to let him go. Why was Dean making it so much harder?

"Why not, buddy?" John was trying to be patient, but as the sound of the bell rang in the distance and the children began filing around the playground, looking for their homeroom teachers, he began to feel rather frustrated. If Dean continued acting like this… But then his thoughts were interrupted by his son's small voice, muffled by his coat.

"But, Daddy, what about Sammy? Who'll watch out for him while I'm in school?"

And then it hit him, like a ton of bricks. It wasn't really _school_ that terrified Dean, but the thought of abandoning his little brother. Shit, John had taught the kid maybe _too_ well. "Look out for Sammy," he'd drilled in his head practically from the night Mary had died, and now, according to five-year-old logic, he was asking Dean to disobey that rule. No wonder he was upset.

It was at this moment that John turned his attention to his youngest. He had been so concerned about getting Dean settled that he hadn't noticed that the toddler had been fussing practically the entire time. Sam would squirm in his stroller, whining and complaining at times, crying softly at others. It occurred to him that the two boys were practically attached to the hip; whatever Big Brother did, little Sammy did his best to emulate. And no doubt Dean had noticed how upset the little boy was, further distressing him. Shit.

"Don't worry about Sammy," John smiled, gently pulling the little boy away; thankfully, Dean allowed himself to be pried from his father's arm. "I know you want to take care of him, but I'll take over for a bit while you're in school. Even Superman needs a break sometimes, right?" Dean grinned at the analogy, nodding his head vigorously. "Yeah," he smiled, this time grabbing John's hand excitedly. "And I can teach him _lots_ an' _lots_ of things in school!" Turning to his little brother. "It's ok, Sammy. I'll be back. An' I'll tell you all about school when I get home!" The little boy stopped fussing, though fat tears still rolled down his chubby cheeks. "Don't cry, Sammy. And some day when you're big _you_ can come to school with me!" That caught Sam's attention and he smiled brightly, clapping his hands excitedly. "Sammy go to school with Dee!" he cried, and John sighed with relief. Thank God. He couldn't imagine how horrible the situation could have been had things escalated. By now, Dean was tugging impatiently at his father's arm. "C'mon, Daddy, let's go!"

"Ok, Dean-o, slow down!" John chuckled, following his son across the now empty playground and in the front doors of what would no doubt be the first of many schools for both of his boys. Fortunately, he located Dean's classroom with relative ease, and a few minutes later, the boy was standing before the door, suddenly looking nervous again. He looked up at John, fear in his green eyes. But John simply nodded, a suspicious lump forming from beneath his throat. Dean's first day of kindergarten. If only Mary were alive…quickly John brushed aside the thought and gently led the little boy into the brightly lit room. "Let's find your desk, buddy," he whispered. All the excitement from outside gone, Dean slowly followed his dad along the room, until he found the little desk, his name written on a paper apple taped to the front. John stayed with him, waited until the boy's lunch was stowed neatly in his cubby and he was settled at his desk before slipping away, giving the kindly teacher a sad smile before slipping out the door.

XXX

When John arrived at the school later that afternoon, a napping Sam in tow, he was thrilled to see Dean bouncing out the front door, a piece of paper flapping in his hands as he ran. "How was the first day, bud?" he asked, ruffling Dean's wind tousled hair. The boy grinned, and once again John found himself sighing in relief. So far, so good.

"Miss Jones is really nice," Dean began, and Tommy Sorensen plays with me on the playground, and we got to draw pictures. And Miss Jones is teaching me to read. I wanna read to Sammy when I get better!"

"That's wonderful, Dean! What picture did you draw? Can I see it?" Dean nodded, and proudly opened the piece of paper, neatly folded into quarters. In bright crayon, Dean had drawn a jet black car, and John smiling by the driver's door, dressed in what looked like some sort of Halloween costume. But what really caught the hunter's attention was Dean, dressed in a Superman costume, cape billowing in the wind. In his hands was a tiny stick figure, no doubt Sam. "Is that you and Sammy?" he guessed, pointing at the drawing. Dean nodded proudly. "Yup."

"Why are you dressed as Superman, kiddo?" Dean looked at his father as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. And he felt that familiar lump when he heard his son's matter of fact answer. "'Cause it's my job to protect Sammy, Daddy." He pointed to the image of his costumed father. "And you're his partner, watching him while I'm in school. So the monsters don't get him."

John smiled, the familiar moisture forming from his eyes. "You're right, bud. You're right."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This chapter is by request from liliannaelizabeth, who requested "Dean and Sam having to spend so many hours in the Impala together while John went on hunts." I hope you like this! Thanks for all the amazing requests so far, will do my best to accommodate you all! Thanks also to FraidyCat1234, firecracker189, liliannaelizabeth, missingmkikey, mb64, mandancie, BranchSuper, and LilyBolt for your awesome reviews. The most at one time I've received in a while! Thanks, and keep 'em coming! And As always, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_** just borrowing the boys. Enjoy!**

**Chapter 3 – Anything for Sammy**

"I'm bored."

Dean rolled his eyes at his younger brother, popping a peanut M&M in his mouth and sighing in satisfaction as he crunched into the chocolate coating. What could be better in life than M&Ms and hunting ghosts with his family?

Oh right. Pain in the ass, whiney little brothers.

"Read your book, then. It's still light out."

"I don't wanna, Dean," whined the eight-year old, leaning against the Impala's leather seats and pouting at his older brother, the look that Dean was already coining the "bitchface." I've read it twice already."

"Then read it a third time."

Sam opened his mouth to retort something smart, but wisely kept it shut. He could tell that Dean was beginning to get irritated at Sam, no doubt because he was probably getting restless as well. Their father had been supposedly out for a simple salt and burn of a jilted lover, casing the area and marking where the grave was for an easier hunt at nightfall. But he had been due back about half an hour ago. Dean wasn't at the stage where he was nervous, at least not yet. He was well aware that hunting wasn't exactly an easy nine to five job, where you finished every day on time and was home for supper at sunset. Sam, on the other hand, while fully aware that his father had tended to disappear for days at a time, was still in that mind frame that when he was present with his father, he would always return when he said he would. He was still only a month away from his ninth birthday, and was still certain that his father would be there for the (well, for Winchester standards) festivities. Dean knew better, but kept his mouth shut. No sense bursting the kid's bubble. Besides, who knew? John Winchester may just surprise them both.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, squirt?"

"Did a monster kill Mom?"

_Shit._ Dean shoved his bag of M&M's in his pocket, suddenly losing his appetite. Damn, why did the kid always have to bring up their mother? Sam had asked the question a few times before, and Dean had always brushed him off, either angrily or by abruptly changing the subject. Today he decided to go for option two.

"What's your book about, Sam? Something I might actually wanna read?"

"Stop ignoring me, Dean." The elder Winchester looked up, saw the determination in Sam's hazel eyes, and sighed. "You keep on brushing me off, and I'm tired of it. Tell me."

"Seriously, Sam, you don't want to know. Drop it."

"I _do_ want to know. And I have the right to. She was my mom too. Stop treating me like a baby, Dean, 'cause I'm not. I can handle it."

Dean sighed. It was true, the kid had a right to know what had happened to his own mother. For years h had simply told him that Mary had died in a fire when he was a baby, which actually _was_ true, if one conveniently forgot to mention the idea of a supernatural arsonist. But Dean would always leave it at that, and Sam had never questioned further. Until that Christmas when Dean had finally admitted the truth of their father's job. Well, no time like the present. May as well get it over with.

"Yeah, a monster killed mom. Or something like that. Dunno what it was exactly."

Sam suddenly became quiet, picking at the fibers on his jeans and staring out at the forest beyond the Impala's window. He had figured as much, but had been desperately hoping that it wasn't true. That maybe it really _had_ been just the fire that had taken away his mother, his childhood, and, if not for Dean, would have stolen his sense of security too. Dean sat beside him, quiet, immediately regretting having told his brother the truth. There was so little of that childhood innocence remaining with his little brother, and he wanted desperately to protect that shred that remained within him. But that wasn't the real world. That innocence was nothing but a lie, carefully molded by John Winchester, and kept in place by Dean himself. What kind of brother was he who shattered the dreams of a little boy?

They remained silent until Dean noticed his father appearing from the horizon, limping and covered in dirt. He slid behind the wheel, barely acknowledging his boys as he gunned the car's engine and headed back to the motel. Dean knew that his dad had to return later that night to burn the corpse, and that he and Sam would once again have to tag along, but this time, he would be prepared: comics, colouring books, Sam's favorite music on the Walk-Man he had managed to shoplift the year before for his eighth birthday. Not only to keep the uncomfortable questions at bay, but to make sure the kid was safe and happy. After all, the kid did piss him off, but he loved him more than anything. Even if it meant lying to the kid.

Anything for Sammy.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This one is for the awesome mandancie, who requested "John has to go to the store with two hyper boys." I hope you enjoy this one hun! Thanks to all those who have reviewed, followed, favorited, and read this story. It means a lot! Enjoy!**

**Chapter 4 – Dizzy**

Peace and quiet. Relaxing with a bottle of beer and a rare Royals game. It was something John Winchester rarely had the time to indulge in (or at least, he rarely bothered to _make_ the time) but after grocery shopping with two overly excited boys (who were, thankfully, passed out in the second of their latest motel's two double beds) it had taken all the willpower in the world to not turn to the hard stuff.

"Shouldn't have sent the kids to Bobby's last week," John had muttered as the four-and-eight-year olds had ran around the store excitedly earlier that afternoon. "The damn fool spoils 'em as it is. No wonder they're worked up." He closed his eyes at the memory, swallowing a generous swig of beer and settling on the couch to watch his ballgame.

**Earlier that day…**

"Daddy! I want _Lucky Charms!_" Sam looked up at his father, hazel eyes expectant as he reached for the box of sugary cereal.

"We have _Trix_ at home, Sam. We don`t need cereal. "

For a moment, Sam`s little face scrunched up, as if we were about to throw the motherload of tantrums. But one look at his father`s stern face immediately silenced the little boy, and he moved on along the aisle, jumping up and down at the choices of cookies farther along. "Oreos! Daddy, could we get some Oreos? Pu-leaase? "

"Yeah! " Dean chimed in, obviously fuelling his little brother`s excitement. "We haven`t had those in a while. " He reached for the bag, about to add it to the meagre pile of groceries in the cart, but immediately retreated it when he saw John`s disapproving look. "We don`t have as much money this go around, Dean. We have to stick to necessities. " Dean nodded in acknowledgement, but John hadn`t been surprised to find the bag of cookies, no doubt shoplifted by the little boy himself, tucked away in a corner of the motel. There was nothing that boy wouldn`t do for that kid.

The cookie incident did nothing to deter the overactive boys, however. John had just picked them up from a week`s stay in Sioux Falls. Time at Bobby`s, much to John`s dismay, usually meant less time training and more time goofing off. _Being boys,_ Bobby called it. Slacking off, as John saw it. And judging how both boys were bouncing off the walls, there was a pretty good chance that Sam and Dean had both been indulging their sweet tooths.

And so it continued for the remainder of the trip. Sam would hop up and down, excited about the new book Bobby had given him. Dean had promised that he would read the story to the kid later on, and Sam couldn`t wait to hear it. Dean had always added extra emotion when reading to the little boy, and it thrilled him to no end. One of his favorites was the story of King Arthur and his adventures in Camelot, and this story in particular was an abridged young reader`s version. A little too advanced for the average preschooler, but he adored the pictures, looking at the coloured images for hours at a time.

Dean was equally excited to go home. Bobby had bought him a very realistic looking BB gun, one which had the look and feel of a real firearm. It was a gift that had been discussed with John, who was planning on teaching his first born to shoot within the next few weeks or so. Dean was eagerly waiting for his chance to emulate his father, a man he idolized despite his frequent absences. Bobby, though he had much preferred buying a bike or something more childlike for the boy, had reluctantly contributed to the purchase of the BB gun.

And now both of John Winchester`s boys were nowhere near calm enough to be able to handle what should have been a simple shopping trip.

"Boys! "John`s voice boomed, loud enough so that the patrons nearby actually stopped and stared at the frazzled man and his hyperactive sons. Great. That was all he needed, the extra attention. "That is _enough! _You need to both calm down now. Or so help me god I`m leaving this cart and marching you straight home. " Both boys froze on the spot, opened mouthed. Their father had been stern before, but he had _never_ really yelled at them in public before. Sam`s face scrunched up in that silly way it did before he would throw a tantrum, and John sighed. "I`m sorry, Sammy, but you need to calm down, ok bud?" The child nodded, gazing down at his worn sneakers. "I know. I`m sorry, Daddy. " John gazed sternly at his other son, and Dean nodded in agreement. "Yessir, " he said quietly. He reached for his little brother`s hand. "Come on, Sammy, we better hurry up an` let Dad buy the food so I can read you your story. " Sam grinned, and calmly followed his father and brother along the aisles, finishing their shopping. The sooner he helped Daddy, the sooner Dean would read him his new story.

XXX

John switched off the television, the final innings of his game ending and an infomercial for costume jewelry taking its place. He looked over at the bed where his two boys were sound asleep, Sam cradled in the crook of Dean`s arm, just a hint of his dark curls poking from beneath the blankets. Beside him on the night stand was the little book Sam had been so excited to share with his brother. For a moment, he felt a pang of jealously. It was _Dean_ whom Sam had been so adamant to have read to him, not his own father. The familiar sting of tears welled in his eyes, and he settled on his bag, rummaging through his duffle for his journal; he was already feeling guilty for having wasted a few hours on a damn ball game than research his latest hunt. But as he prodded along the bag, his fingers brushed against something. Curious, he reached farther through the contents, eventually pulling out two pieces of paper, each decorated with brightly coloured crayon.

_Happy birthday Daddy!_ The words, in Sam`s careful printing, dominated the front page. Inside, he had drawn a picture of the three of them, standing by the Impala, all smiling as though they were the typical American family. On the final page, Sam had proudly written, _to Daddy love Sammy._ John felt that stray tear slide down his cheek as he looked over the card his son had made with love. Another card was tucked with the first one, this one covered with spooky looking ghosts and their father, standing proud as he faced it with a gun. Something that would no doubt frighten any schoolteacher had the work been a class project, but one that made John Winchester beam with pride. They had remembered his birthday when he had forgotten. The frustrations of the afternoon melted away as he gently closed the cards and slipped them back where they belonged. Sneaking over to the bed, he gently kissed each of his sons, ruffling damp locks from foreheads peaceful with sleep. Sometimes, it was frustrating as hell being a parent. But there were the good days, too.

In fact, sometimes it felt wonderful.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: This one is for the amazing LilyBolt, who had two requests for me. I chose "the first time Sam had Dean's back in a hunt. Like the first time Dean got into trouble on a hunt and Sam was able to help him. I wonder how Dean would feel in that situation." So here it is! And I highly recommend her work, she is fantastic! Thank you LilyBolt, mb64, mandancie, BranchSuper, lilliannaelizabeth, and angela for your recent awesome reviews! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_** though I wish I did sometimes. And happy premiere day tomorrow!**

**Chapter 5 – Got My Back**

Deant lay in his uncomfortable double bed, eyes squeezed shut in an effort to quiet the pounding in his skull. Every muscle in his body was on fire, the pain barely dulled by the whiskey and pain meds Sam had fed him before sending him to bed (but not before the routine check for a concussion. God. How sad was it that checking for head injuries would become so mundane?). His body was exhausted, yearning for sleep, but the intense pain of the massive headache was at war with his sleep deprived body, and was apparently winning. _Great,_ Dean muttered, rubbing his aching head in hopes of at least easing the pain to a dull ache.

But it wasn't only the injuries keeping Dean Winchester awake. He slowly turned to the right, where his brother was passed out on the bed beside him, exhausted from not only the fucked up hunt they had just partaken in, but the additional time needed to patch his brother up and send him to bed with the confidence that he wasn't going to bite it in his sleep. The kid who had, not three hours earlier, had saved his life. Dean sighed, the memory of the past events haunting him.

XXX

It had started as a relatively simple hunt, one of those stereotypical haunted Victorian style houses in sleepy Connecticut towns. The home of Boston residents Gina and Mark Ryder had been rumoured to be haunted for centuries, but the alleged spook had remained dormant: at least until the Ryders had moved in. The couple, expecting their first child, hadn't been settled a week before the unsettling behaviour had begun: the typical flickering of lights, dramatic drop in temperature, stopped clocks, items in disarray. Dean had been delighted to take up the case: it was classic _Amityville,_ a rare occurrence to the Winchesters and their father. John had not objected; in fact, he was off on his own, hunting a possible shifter in Daytona. Research had shown that the house indeed had another unwanted inhabitant, that of a young boy who had died of fever at the tender age of six. Little David McAllister had been locked away in his bedroom by neglectful parents, unaware of the severity of their son's illness until his ultimate passing. Both Sam and Dean, horrified by the child's fate, were perhaps more determined than usual to put the little boy's spirit to rest.

It had been a simple case initially. The little boy had been buried in a shallow grave in the backyard, and the Winchesters quickly salted and burned the corpse. Boy freed from an eternity in limbo. Another job done.

The Winchesters had been wrong.

A day after young David's remains had been burned, the homeowners were still reporting suspicious, and frightening, activity. And so Sam and Dean had returned to the Ryders' quaint Cape Cod to get to the bottom of it. And it was in the couple's bedroom when Sam first saved his brother's life in a hunt.

"Dean, I think we missed something!" Sam yelled out as he ducked, an ornate lamp tossed at his head like a child's ball. Dean, who was dodging as the dresser toppled over, nearly pinning him to the hardwood floor, shot his brother a frustrated glance. "No shit, Sammy!"

"Damn, the kid had a sister!" Duck again as another of the Ryders' personal effects hurtled through space, narrowly missing him. "Did you remember anything about her dying too?"

"Hell if I know. You're the one who usually figures this shit out!" Another duck as yet another object was flung with malevolent glee at the elder Winchester. "All I know is we need to get the hell out of Dodge and figure this out. _Now _would be…"

Dean suddenly stopped in mid-sentence, and to Sam's horror, he had noticed that the heavy wardrobe was hurtling towards him. For a moment, all he could do was stare, suddenly taken by surprise by the possessed object. And then, he felt strong arms push him aside; he landed with an awkward thud against the floor, only to have a second dresser slide along the floor, pinning him to the wall.

But it wasn't this relatively minor setback which had horrified Dean Winchester; the damn dresser hurt like a son of a bitch, and he could now see, out of the corner of his eye, the manifestation of the second spirit, the little boy's protective older sister. She looked to be in her mid-teens, auburn curls tied back with a silken red ribbon that matched her plaid red and green dress. There was pure hatred in her grey eyes, pale face highlighting the freckles on her cheeks and nose. But it was not this sight which bothered him…

It was that of his brother, pinned beneath the wardrobe, gasping for breath.

Dean looked at the spirit with pleading eyes, trying desperately to push away the dresser. Stubbornly, the girl refused to relent, staring coldly at him. But despite the anger in her eyes, Dean thought he could see the trace of tears gently trickling along her translucent cheeks. And then it hit him; just as Dean was an older brother, this young woman was an older sister, protective of the little boy who had been neglected practically since birth. It was no doubt her duty to protect him (though no doubt initiated by herself rather than the promise of loving parents), just as it was nineteen-year-old Dean's job to protect his younger brother. Maybe if he could convince her, let her know that he understood.

"You're an older sister, huh?" he gasped, trying not to wince from both the pain and the laboured gasps of his brother has he struggled to breathe. The girl, to Dean's surprise, nodded. Up, down, back to center.

"Then you understand. See him? That's my kid brother. And I would do anything for him. I know you love David. Well, I love Sammy. And he's gonna die if I don't do anything. So you've gotta let me help him. Please."

The girl paused for a moment, considering. And then, to Dean's relief, he felt the weight from his chest recede as the dresser slid an inch away; quickly he pushed it aside. Damn. She was giving him a chance, but damn well making him work for it. Without a word, he rushed as quickly as his aching body would allow to his brother's side. To Dean's horror, Sam was barely breathing, face ashen, hazel eyes glossing over from lack of oxygen, lips that hideous shade of blue. He opened his mouth to try to speak, but no words came, only shallow croaks. Immediately Dean began to lift away the wardrobe; it was heavy, barely moving, and Dean felt a surge of panic. He was so close… had been given a second chance, only for Sam to die? No. It wasn't happening. Not if he could help it.

"It's ok, Sammy," he assured him, "I'm here. I won't leave." To Dean's surprise, Sam reached his trembling hand, and Dean grasped it, reassuring. "It'll be ok, little brother." To his horror, the grip on his hand loosened, and his little brother stopped breathing. _No. Nonononononono. _This wasn't happening. With a sudden burst of strength, Dean pulled at the wardrobe. At first, nothing. And then, suddenly, it lifted with ease; and to his astonishment, he saw the teenage girl's spirit, helping from the other side.

_She had lost a brother too. She can't see Dean lose his too._

Finally, the wardrobe was case aside, Sam free; but, as Dean had dreaded, the fifteen-year-old wasn't breathing. "Oh, God," Dean moaned, checking frantically for a pulse. Nothing. "C'mon, man, don't do this to me. It should've been me under there." He quickly pumped against his brother's chest, heart pounding in fear, waiting. No response. "C'mon, kid, _breathe!" _ He tilted the boy's head back, breathed for him. Still nothing. And then, the most wonderful sound Dean Winchester had heard as Sam gasped, drawing a shaky, pained breath.

"That's it, Sammy. Just breathe. There you go." Eyes bright with unshed tears as he helped sit his brother up, rubbing his back as Sam drew painful gasps into his oxygen deprived lungs.

XXX

That had been three hours ago. Sam had recovered from his near death experience, and both he and Dean were in a lot of pain from their recent run-ins with the Ryders' bedroom furniture. Of course, Sam had been incredibly protective of Dean, much to his frustration. It should be the other way around, Dean caring for Sam. The kid hadn't been breathing, fuck, had been clinically _dead._ And he was the one caring for _him_? It should've been him. Not Sam. Not his Sammy.

But the kid had saved his life. Dean could have very easily died had the tables been turned. And while it was comforting to know that Sam would always have his back (he had always known, of course, but he had never actually witnessed his younger brother make good of his word), it also distressed him. Not because it made him feel incompetent, but because of the very real threat to Sam. He had almost died, because of _him._ He didn't deserve that. Sam had a bright future ahead of him; he had heard him mumble something about wanting straight As in hopes of being accepted into a prestigious university, like Yale or Harvard. Dean's purpose in life was to emulate his father and gank monsters for a living.

And Sam had come so close to losing that. Dean watched his brother sleep, fully aware of how creepy that seemed, but still rather irrationally frightened that the kid would stop breathing in his sleep. Hell, stranger things had happened to the Winchesters. He knew that regardless of the circumstances, his little brother would always have his back. And as much as it hurt, the elder hunter couldn't help but admit that despite that fact, another emotion had welled inside him, watching his already hurt brother care for him. It hurt him to the very core to see his little brother broken; he died a little every time. But the kid always bounced back, ready for more, ready to face whatever supernatural piece of shit with bravery and dignity.

Dean Winchester was proud.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This one is for mb64, who requested "Dean teaching Sammy how to swim." After the angst filled chapter I just finished, I figured I'd write something a tad lighter. Thank you all for your requests, I will try to accommodate them all! Thanks also to flygirl33, LilyBolt, mandancie, mb64, BranchSuper, and deanstheman for your recent reviews. And thanks to all who have read, followed, favorited, or reviewed this story. It means a lot! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural.**_** For entertainment purposes only.**

**Chapter 6 – Trust Me**

"Come on, Sam. I'll be right here. Don't be scared."

Five-year-old Sam stood at the edge of the pool, wearing a pair of clear rubber floaties decked with dinosaurs on his arms, a look of sheer terror on his face. A few days ago, the little boy had been more than ready to learn how to swim, and had been excited that his big brother was going to teach him; had been talking non-stop about the epic event to the point where their father was becoming rather annoyed with his youngest son's constant chatter. But the moment he stood at the pool's edge, little Sam became petrified.

"Dean, I'm scared."

Dean, already in the pool and ready to go, swam to the edge where his little brother was waiting, looking up at the shaking form. "You don't need to be scared. I'm here, remember?" The child nodded his head, but still looked skeptical. Normally Sam trusted his big brother with everything, but this time was different. He knew that the water was deep, would go well over his head, and the thought of his feet not touching bottom terrified the boy. What if Dean let go? What if his head went under and he couldn't get back up? What if something happened to Dean and he would be unable to help him? Sam hugged himself, trying to calm the butterflies in his stomach. Dean _did_ look like he wouldn't let anything bad happen to him. He had been there when he fell off his bike and scraped his knee, had found him when he had gotten lost in the woods last summer, had chased the nightmares away with stories, letting him crawl under the blankets beside him…

"Do you trust me, Sammy?" The child snapped back to reality, looking into his brother's big, green eyes. Eyes that were not impatient, like Daddy's might have been, but filled with love for his little brother. Willing to wait for him, no matter how long it took. The little boy nodded again, lowered himself to the edge of the pool and dipped a foot gingerly into the cold water; he couldn't help but shudder at the feel of the water between his toes. But one look at Dean, his encouraging grin, was enough to bring a newfound courage to the little boy and slowly he eased into the pool, Dean ready to catch him. "I've gotcha, see? You'll be fine Sammy."

And so began Sam Winchester's first swimming lesson. At first, the child was still apprehensive; it still bothered him greatly that his feet couldn't feel the comfort of solid ground, or even the bottom of the pool. But at least, with the help of his child like floatation device and Dean's grip, his head was above the surface. Dean let him just sit there for a while, getting used to the sensation of the water against his body and adjusting to the cold temperature, and after a while, the child began to enjoy himself. It was really hot outside, and the cool water felt refreshing. When Dean noticed that Sam was feeling more comfortable with his surroundings, he continued with his instruction.

"Ok, Sammy, now you have to duck your head in the water."

In an instant, the smile that had begun to spread on the boy's face faded. Hazel eyes filled with fear at the prospect of being underwater. No. No way. The child shook his head vehemently, trying to hide his terror with one of his trademark pouts. He didn't want Dean to see him so scared. But Dean was no fool, and gently patted his kid brother on the shoulder. "It's ok, Sammy. I'll be right here. I won't let you get hurt. You can trust me." Again, Sam nodded, still shaking slightly. He didn't realize how much it was hurting his older brother to see him so scared. Truthfully, it pained Dean to have to torture the kid; he could see that Sam was petrified. _Crap,_ he told himself. Too bad the kid wasn't still excited about his first time in the pool. At least then it might have been easier to get this first lesson out of the way. But it was a necessity that the boy know how to swim; it could be a potential life saver. But it still broke Dean's heat to have to put his younger brother through such torture.

Sam, still too young to understand, was oblivious to Dean's inner torment. All he could see was the smile (which Dean hoped seemed convincing) and nods of encouragement. And Sam knew that he wouldn't let his big brother down. Swallowing his fear, he slowly lowered his curly head underwater.

"That's it!" Dean cheered when Sam resurfaced, his sopping bangs clinging to his forehead. "Good job, Sammy! I knew you could do it!" And Dean's words of praise was all it took for the boy to break out into a wide grin. He had done it! He'd ducked his head underwater! And it hadn't been as scary as he had thought! "Dean! I did it!" he squealed in delight, hugging his brother close.

And so the rest of Sam's first swimming lesson continued. The child ducked his head a few more times (this time, the boy much more willing to do so) and had even leaned the doggy paddle (though he still wore his protective floaties). By the end of the hour, Sam was loving the water, and eager to go back the next day. Later, as they stood outside the pool eating ice cream, Sam squeezed his older brother's hand.

"Thanks, Dean."

"For what, squirt? The ice cream?"

"Nope," Sammy grinned and Dean immediately caught on. In his own way, the child was thanking him for being there for him, for always being his big bother, never letting go. Dean smiled, ruffling the child's still damp hair. "Anytime, kiddo," he grinned.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: This one is for angela, who requested "teen Sam interrupting a burglar in the house they are staying at, Dean and John asleep upstairs. Dean and John come down and rescue him." Thanks for the request! In this one, Sam will be thirteen and Dean, seventeen. Thanks to mb64, lilliannaelizabeth, judyann, mandancie, and BranchSuper for your recent reviews. And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_** for entertainment purposes only.**

**Chapter 7**

The sound was quiet, barely loud enough for even the heaviest of sleepers to hear. But to a hunter, well prepared for anything to make unwanted appearances in the night, even the softest of sounds could be heard, so long as they were unfamiliar. To survive on the hunt meant to have a keen sense of hearing, something thirteen-year-old Sam had learned from the moment he had first fired a gun.

And so, at the sound of rustling in the downstairs of their latest rented home, Sam's hazel eyes snapped open, his fingers carefully sliding under the pillow for the knife he kept for emergencies. Another thing John Winchester had taught both of his boys: always be armed. Carefully, so as not to alert the intruders, Sam pulled out the blade and pushed aside his blankets, tiptoeing to the bedroom door. He debated waking his brother and father, warning them of any potential danger; but last night's hunt had been a tough one, and John and Dean had gone home exhausted. Sam, having been recovering from a rather bad case of the flu, had been asked to sit it out, and had slept most of the day away. He would definitely be more alert than the others. His only concern, to be honest, was his constant sniffling. Immediately he regretted not having taken the decongestant his father had left him.

Quietly, Sam turned the knob, grateful that the heavy door opened without a sound. So far, so good. Clutching his knife, Sam made his way down the hall, past the room where Dean was snoring softly. Normally, it bothered Sam to have his own room, having shared one with his brother practically as long as he could remember. Very rarely had the brothers been separated in thirteen years, even by something as mundane as a few walls and a hallway. And as he heard another noise from downstairs, he again began to regret having his own private space. Because if he had been sharing a room, Dean would have certainly awakened. And as much as he wanted his brother to rest, Sam was suddenly nervous to be making his way to potential danger alone.

_Come on,_ he told himself, swallowing the anxiety that was building in the pit of his stomach. _You're a Winchester. You've been on enough hunts with Dean and Dad. No problem._ But as the teen crept down the stairs, holding his breath that they wouldn't creak with each step, he very quickly began to question his bravery. _Can't be scared,_ he told himself, _to be scared is to let your guard down. Be always on your guard. Never show fear._

Finally Sam had reached the final step, his eyes long adjusted to the darkness. He could see shadows in the corner of the room, rummaging through drawers, tossing papers carelessly around the room, obviously looking for something. _Holy crap, these guys aren't supernatural!_ Sam's eyes widened at the realization. _They're human! They're just burglars!_ And suddenly the boy froze, the weapon slipping from his hands. Monsters, he could do. He'd, to borrow Dean's phrasing, ganked his fair share in the past year, even if he _had _had his brother's help. But this? Humans?

Suddenly a crash startled Sam from his reverie; the knife he had been clutching had fallen to the hardwood floor, the sound of metal on wood reverberating through the home. Equally startled, the burglars turned, the beams of their flashlights landing on the suddenly very frightened boy. "Shit, Bob, we've got company," one muttered, tugging rather uncomfortably at the ski mask covering his face.

"Well, don't just stand there, dumbass. Get him!"

And that was all it too for Sam to snap back to reality. The hours of training were suddenly paying off, and Sam quickly dodged one of the burglars, landing a solid kick to the ankle; the intruder winced in pain. Undeterred, the young Winchester dodged again, this time planting a well-aimed foot into the guy's nether regions. "Next time, don't mess with Sam Winchester," he grinned, bending down to reach for his knife.

That one mistake. That was all it took for Sam Winchester to lose his fight. There was a sharp pain, then darkness as the boy slid into unconsciousness, his weapon once more sliding to the floor.

XXX

Dean sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd heard a noise from downstairs, one that definitely didn't sound friendly. He knew the difference between friendly and foe: the familiar noises of one sneaking into the kitchen for a late night snack and the foreboding ones of potential danger. Without hesitation, he reached for his gun, crept out of the bedroom.

Sam's door was wide open.

"Shit." Quickly the teen crept to his father's room, not surprised to see that the unsettling noises had awakened John Winchester as well.

"Sammy's not in his room," he whispered, and John nodded, obviously trying to push back the anxiety that was quickly overwhelming him. He was a hunter, dammit. He couldn't lose his cool. For all he knew, Sam was just downstairs getting a glass of water. But at the sound of struggles emitting from the living room, both Dean and John Winchester realized that the boy was in deep trouble.

"Cover me," John signaled, and carefully made his way downstairs, Dean following quietly, gun drawn. He tried to swallow the ever present fear that something had happened to his little brother. It was Dean's job to protect him, to keep him safe, and now there was a good chance that he was in serious trouble, maybe even hurt. If anything were to happen to him, he'd never forgive himself. _Should've woken up earlier. Should've gone downstairs before Sammy. Christ, he's just a kid…_

No. He needed to snap out of it, pay attention. He wouldn't be able to help Sam by feeling sorry for himself. Drawing a deep breath, he finished his descent, eyes peeled in the darkness for any signs of struggle. Sure enough, the living room looked ransacked. "Shit," Dean heard his father mumble. The teen looked down, trying to control the anger that was now threatening to swallow the fear…

…And nearly tripped on the knife on the floor.

"Dad," Dean whispered, fighting off the nausea and panic. "It's Sammy's knife." The teen bent to pick it up, sliding it carefully in his boot. He could see the faint light emanating from the kitchen, could hear the faint moans of one slowly regaining consciousness. Sam was alive, Dean was sure of it. He turned to his father, once more signalling to his son to follow his lead. John would circle around the house, take the back door, while Dean covered the living room entrance. Resisting the urge to just barge into the kitchen, Dean waited as John carefully snuck out the front door and around to the back porch, weapon drawn and ready to shoot. But he did carefully peak through the partially open door. To Dean's relief, Sam seemed to be fine, but was secured to a kitchen chair by heavy ropes, his head still lolling to the side as he fought off unconsciousness. And to his surprise, he noticed that the culprits were not the typical foe.

_Holy fuck, they're human! _The thought that humans were after his little brother surprisingly bothered him more than had it been some supernatural fugly. Because at least those creatures had some sort of purpose behind what they were doing, or at least a sort of legit reason; survival, unfinished business, whatever. But these guys were fucking _people! Demons I get. People are crazy. _ Dean looked up, saw his father peering in through the window, nodding his head. It was go time. _About damn time._ Heart pounding, Dean made his way into the kitchen, weapon drawn. "Drop it."

"Shit." Bob, who had been covering Sam while his partner rummaged through the kitchen on his quest for valuables, immediately reached for the butcher knife in his pocket; not fast enough. The echo of a gunshot startled Sam awake as Dean fired a well-aimed shot at the intruder's hand, the knife falling harmlessly to the floor. Bob's partner was immediately to his rescue, but not before John, who had by now barged into the room, knocked him from behind; his body crumpled to the floor, his head cracking against the edge of the stove. "That'll teach you to not mess with John Winchester, motherfucker," he spat. Another groan of pain, and John knew that Dean had done a number on the other guy.

"That was a mistake," he heard his son hiss, the usual light tone replaced by something fearfully menacing. "You see, that kid in the chair? That's my baby brother. And when he was little, my dad told me to keep an eye on him. _Look out for Sammy._ And you just made me almost break that promise." Another groan as Dean kicked Bob in the side. "Nobody messes with my brother. Got that?" No response from the burglar, who had finally succumbed to Dean's attack. Giving him a final kick for good measure, he quickly rushed to Sam's side, snapping open the binds with his brother's knife.

"You ok, Sammy?" The boy nodded, wincing in pain. "Just a headache, Dean." The elder brother gave Sam a once over, just to be certain, and satisfied that the kid wasn't going to pass out again, pulled aside the binds and helped him out of the chair. "You're good, little brother. You'll be fine." He pulled him close, relishing in the fact that Sam was alive and well, while John took care of Bob and his accomplice. Sam remained quiet as the men were secured with rope and drug out of the house; an anonymous tip to the police would be called later, but for now, the Winchesters had no intentions of bringing the cops to their current address. It wasn't until the place was secure, Sam sitting at the table with a glass of warm milk and a roast beef sandwich that John's wrath began to surface.

"What were you thinking? You should've woken us up! It's a wonder you weren't seriously hurt! For godssake, Sam, you're still only a kid. What would've happened if your brother and I weren't here to bail you out?"

"Dad," Dean warned, watching Sam's face crumble at his father's harsh words. Oblivious, John continued.

"You could've been killed."

"Dean was hunting a lot younger than I am now," Sam protested, not looking up from the half eaten sandwich. He couldn't face his father, not now.

"That's beside the point."

"C'mon, Dad, leave him alone. He's been through a lot already."

"Not now, Dean." John turned to the boy, anger suddenly replaced by fear. "You're my son," he said softly, placing one hand on Sam's trembling shoulder. He opened his mouth, the three words he and his firstborn had such trouble saying almost slipping from his lips, but instead he nodded, blinking away tears. Sam nodded in understanding, his own hazel eyes bright. "Yessir," he said softly. "I'm sorry, Dad." Turning to his brother: "Dean, I'm sorry. I thought I could handle it. I didn't know…"

"I know," Dean said softly. He had been equally pissed once the terror had settled. John was right, the kid shouldn't have gone down there alone. The night could have ended a lot worse. Dean closed his eyes, shuddering at the possible outcomes. But seeing the look of pain in the boy's eyes, not from his physical ailments but the hurt of knowing he had worried his beloved big brother, it was too much. And, Dean had to admit, he was proud of the kid, too. He was willing to defend his family when most thirteen-year-olds were thinking of girls and video games. He gently cupped his hands in the boy's chin, smiling affectionately at him. "I know." And looking at the love and pride in his brother's eyes, Sam knew that he could always count on his older brother.

In more ways than one.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This one is for firecracker189, who requested "Sam's fear of clowns and Dean being there to protect him." Well, here it is, and I hope you enjoy it! Huge thanks to LilyBolt, mandancie,twomoms, mb64, flygirl33, and judyann for your recent reviews. And thanks to all of you who read, follow, or favorite as well. And no, I sadly do not own **_**Supernatural,**_** nor do I own Sam and Dean lol. All rights reserved.**

**Chapter 8 – Protector**

_The house is terrifying, eerily lit by a hideous, neon green light that seemed to penetrate the long, narrow corridors. Mirrors, stretching from floor to ceiling, surround the space, casting distorted images of the frightened little boy as he timidly walks though the passageway. The place is technically deserted, but six-year-old Sam can hear screams and whines echo through the space, taunting him, laughing at the child's intense fear, like a bully kicking a defenseless animal. Eyes bright with the tears he is trying so desperately to keep at bay (_big boys don't cry. Big boys don't cry…)_ Sam continues the journey, hugging himself in hopes of calming the fear that he is trying to control. But the tremors give him away. Sam has never been more terrified in his short life._

"_Dean!" he cries, and he can no longer keep from sobbing. His voice hiccups as the tears spill down his cheek and splash on the dusty, wooden floor. He is alone, scared to death. No Dean to protect him, to chase away the monsters, to wipe away the tears…_

"_Dean is dead!" The voice, an odd but uniquely terrifying hybrid between a growl and a high pitched laugh, booms, seemingly from out of nowhere. Sam stops dead in his tracks, eyes wide as saucers. "No he ain't," the boy calls back, trying to sound convincing. But the shaking voice, muffled by the sobs still caught in the back of his throat, give him away. Amused by the boy's weak attempts at bravery, the voice continues, a belly laugh that reminded Sam of an evil Santa Claus. "Oh, but he is, Sam Winchester. Because I killed him! Hee-hee-hee!..." The laugh seems to reverberate through the corridor, and Sam turns on his heel, trying to find an exit. "No he's not," he repeats, running for dear life. "No he's not, no he's not, HE'S NOT!"_

_But what if the voice is telling the truth? What if Dean IS dead? The boy continues to run, vision blurred by tears, bumping into walls and running into dead ends. The voice continues its high pitched laugh, clearly enjoying Sam's torment. And then, Sam once more stops, this time standing face to face with the most terrifying clown he has ever seen. Standing well over seven feet tall and dressed in the typical white jumpsuit, riddled with brightly coloured spots with a bright, frilly blue collar around its throat. Perched upon its rainbow wig was a tiny hat, a little yellow flower perched precariously on top. But what frightened Sam the most was not the creature's wardrobe, but its face: deathly white, its lips painted not with bright red makeup, but blood, dripping from cavernous fangs and blending perfectly with its oversized red shoes. Eyes, also that ominous shade of crimson, glare at the little boy._

"_Yes, he is," the manic creature continues to taunt the boy, pushing him against one of the mirrors. "And you're next, Sam Winchester…."s_

XXX

"No!"

Sam's hazel eyes snapped open, heart beating madly in his chest. He blinked, trying to register where he was…bright noises, the sound of children's laughter, the nauseating smells of overdone hotdogs, burnt popcorn and sickeningly sweet cotton candy. Recognition dawns as he sits up, not from his (well, at least somewhat) comfortable motel room bed, but the hard, plastic table he had been resting against. He's at Plucky Penniwhistles, the horrible "children's establishment" where parents dump their kids for so called parties. He's in Beaumont, Texas, their father is on a hunt, and Dean has gone with him. The boy shudders, trying to push aside the nightmare that still lingers in his subconscious, a recurring one from when he was just five or six. Now twelve, Sam, fortunately, rarely had that nightmare; in fact, it had been well over a year since the homicidal clown of his dreams had returned for a repeat visit. But, an overtired kid dumped in a Plucky's, where the horrific spawns of Satan, as he so "affectionately" referred to them, seemed to run amok, was more than enough to trigger another nightmare. Sam sighed, rubbed his stiff neck. Fortunately, it was a weekday, and the place wasn't overly busy, save for a few employees wandering around, bored, and the odd kid playing in the ball pit. And the room where Sam had been napping, fortunately, was completely empty.

Sam stood and stretched, his heart rate slowly returning to normal. He was still furious at his father for leaving him in this dump, and equally mad at his brother for doing nothing to stand up for him. Dean knew Sam's fear of clowns, but had only tried one, pathetic attempt to convince his father to change his mind. John, of course, refused, justifying his actions by retelling the details of the latest case, where the targets where boys around Sam's age. It would be dangerous for the kid to tag along, to leave him alone in the motel was equally dangerous, and Bobby's was too out of the way. It was Plucky's or nothing, and Dean had reluctantly agreed. To be fair, Sam knew that Dean didn't really have much of a say in the matter, but it still infuriated him that he would forever be "daddy's little yes man."

Disgusted, Sam left the room and made his way back to the lobby, trying to avoid eye contact with the clowns. Of course, all were of the friendly variety, offering hugs, smiles, and free magic tricks to the enthralled children. Sam shuddered, trying to steady his heart rate and the nausea building inside him. "Just a dude in a clown suit. Don't be such a baby," he muttered under his breath, eyes staring ahead.

"Hey, watch where yer goin', kid."

Sam looked up, only to see a portly man, in full clown costume, reeking of cigarette smoke. But to Sam, he saw the menacing creature from his nightmares. Backing slowly, he muttered an apology and bolted to the exit, trying to keep down the cold pizza he had forced down for lunch.

The east Texas afternoon was stifling, but the heat felt refreshing to the boy and he slowly began to relax. For a minute, he sat on the steps of the building, scanning the horizon, desperate to see the Impala on the horizon, coming to rescue him. Minutes passed, and of course, no familiar hum of the muscle car, and eventually Sam gave up. _Great. _ By now, the heat was beginning to become uncomfortable, and Sam almost considered retreating back inside. Clowns or not, it was at least air conditioned. But then, he saw a Coke machine leaning against one side of the building, humming rather piteously. The boy stuck his hand in his pocket and smiled when his fingers brushed against loose change. At least now he could cool off without having to go back inside.

Quickly Sam made his way across the side of the building to the machine, pulling out quarters as he walked. Just as he was sliding the first one into the slot, he felt the temperature drop significantly.

Not a good sign.

Slowly, Sam turned around, his soda forgotten…

And stared face to face with the spirit of the most frightening clown Sam had ever seen. The loose change tumbled to the ground and the boy backed up, leaning against the ancient vending machine. No. This couldn't be happening. This was just another nightmare. Or maybe he was still trapped in his original dream. Dean would wake him up, make fun of him for being such a girl, but still comfort him.

This was definitely not a dream. For a moment, Sam stared at the apparition, fighting panic, trying to remember his hunter's training. He had no salt on him, unfortunately, and no weapon to dispel the ghost. But he _did_ have years of fitness training under his belt. Deftly, the child ducked, just as the spirit reached for the attack. But Sam knew he wasn't out of the woods yet. He had to find Dad or Dean. Quickly the boy rushed to the road, where a fill up station waited, complete with pay phone. If only he could reach one of them.

Sam had only made it a few feet when suddenly he toppled forward, tripping on a rut in the parking lot. Wincing in pain, the boy tried to get up, only to feel fire shoot up from his left ankle. Shit. He was a gonner. And from a damned _clown._ Imagine how people would laugh at his grave; he could see the obituary clearly: Sam Winchester, killed by homicidal clown. What a joke.

And then, the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

A gunshot echoed in the distance, and the spirit dissipated. The boy looked up, and nearly sobbed in relief. There, running toward him with a look of pure panic on his face, was Dean. His big brother, his hero, always there to chase away the nightmares. The teen bounded across the lot, carefully scooped the boy up in his arms. "It's ok, Sammy, I'm here. I'm here."

"How'd you know?" The voice was muffled, Sam's face buried in his brother's leather jacket. The smell of cheap cologne, leather, and gunpowder comforted him, almost making him forget about the searing pain in his ankle. But Dean's reply was "later, kiddo," as he rushed to the Impala, easing the boy in the back seat. It wasn't until they were speeding away from Plucky's and the Clown from Hell where Dean finally filled him in.

"We found out that the thing going after boys was actually the ghost of this crazy clown who went after kids about your age. We figured that I'd pick you up and we'd head back to the motel. Dad's still looking for the grave, we'll do the whole salt and burn thing later." What Dean conveniently forgot to mention was the fact that the clown was, in fact, a pedophile, one who particularly liked little boys between the ages of nine and thirteen, and who had been employed at a series of Plucky's and other similar establishments until his arrest. But Sam didn't need to know that. It sickened Dean to think that he'd left his little brother there, in harm's way. Granted, neither he nor John had been aware of the Plucky's connection, but, damn, Dean was supposed to protect Sam, and he'd almost failed.

That night, while John went take care of the spirit, Dean stayed with his little brother. When he was certain that the boy was asleep, he hid in the bathroom and sobbed quietly. And when dawn painted its masterpiece in the east Texas sky, Sam awoke to his typical macho older brother, pouring him a bowl of _Lucky Charms_ and laughing as if yesterday had never happened.

And so began another day.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: This one is for the awesome LilyBolt, who requested "Dean teaching Sam to shoot". Thanks for the request and I really hope I do it justice! Thanks so much to judyann, LilyBolt, mb64. twomoms, mandancie, and BranchSuper for your awesome reviews. I'm so thrilled by your response! I truly never hoped to see such a positive response from you all, it really makes my day! Thanks also to those who favorite, follow, and just read this. Love you all! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_** for entertainment purposes only.**

**Chapter 9 – Bull's Eye**

"Okay, Sammy, hold it steady."

Sam drew a deep breath, his father's Taurus held firmly in his hand, eyes on the prize: the rows of empty beer and soda cans perched upon an old fence separating _Singer Salvage_ from the neighbouring property line. At the tender age of ten, the boy was learning to shoot, and Sam had to admit that he had mixed emotions about the whole experience. For one, how many fifth graders learned target practice? And those who did most certainly learned to help shoot wild game: to feed their families (for the kid was still rather naïve to believe that hunters, or at least the _normal_ variety, did not kill for sport). How many learned to protect their families from monsters? The honest-to-God stuff reserved for nightmares?

But on the other hand, Dean had been shooting since he was about nine or ten, and he was a good shot. _Really _good. Like Jesse James good, at least in the eyes of the kid who always idolized his big brother. And as much as it bothered him to be a middle schooler learning to fire a gun, he definitely wanted to be like Dean. And if that mean being a good shot, then so be it. Dean, naturally, had been a bit concerned about Sam's reasoning behind weapon's training: _he should know how to shoot because it can save his life._ And Sam knew that, too. He could read practically any look his older brother gave him: _Go away, you're driving me nuts; you're such a nerd, Geek Boy; I'd never tell it to your face, but I love you; I'm sorry, Sammy… _He knew Dean was right, of course, to shoot meant to save a life, and one must shoot to kill. It tore at him to be so repulsed by an action, and yet so eager to make Dean proud.

"C'mon, Sam, you need to concentrate. This is serious." Sam nodded, his focus once again on the task.

"Don't squeeze the handle so hard, you could break a bone with the kickback," Dean instructed and Sam loosened the grip ever so slightly. "Good. Now relax your shoulders, aim a little higher than the target."

Sam nodded again, relaxing his tense muscles. God, why couldn't he be cool about this? No doubt Dean hadn't been this jittery. Trying to steady his breath and racing heart rate, Sam aimed the weapon, as instructed, just above he can. "You ready?"

"Yes." In a voice a lot calmer than he felt.

"Whenever you're ready, squeeze the trigger gently. Easy does it, kiddo." As instructed, Sam gently pressed his finger against the trigger; even with the protective ear muffs, Sam was tempted to jump at the booming sound, despite Dean's fair warning before he'd even picked up the Taurus. The gun recoiled, also as expected, and Sam felt the raw power running along his arms and shoulders. He'd done it. He'd fired a gun for the first time. Excitement and horror overwhelmed him suddenly: he'd followed Dean's instructions perfectly, but had he hit the target? And why was it exciting him to fire a damned gun in the first place?

The smoke cleared, Sam finally dared to look at the target: or at least, the spot where the Coors Light can had been moments ago. He had hit it spot on.

"Hey, look at that, Sammy!" Dean's face lit up, eyes shining with pride. "You got a bull's eye! Knew you could do it, you learned from the best."

"Sure, Dean. Think of your ego first, you jerk." But Sam was smiling. He'd made Dean proud. Sure, it bothered him to be shooting in the first place, but seeing the look of love and pride on his older brother's face made it worth it. Grinning, Sam fired the remaining rounds, knocking every single can to the ground, Dean grinning from ear to ear. It was perfect. All doubt washed away as the brothers headed back to Bobby's house, and continued when Dean bragged to Bobby at the dinner table how the kid had "knocked 'em all down. Chip off the old block, eh?" In celebration, Bobby headed into town, treating all three to sundaes at the local Dairy Queen; and that was the only time that the doubt from earlier threatened to sneak back. He'd learned how to shoot a damn gun and he was celebrating that with ice cream? What kind of world was this? But he couldn't tell Dean. No way would he understand.

But that night, when hours passed and sleep had still not overcome the boy, Sam knew that he could hold it in no longer. Slowly he slipped from his bed, across the room to where his brother was snoring rather loudly. "Dean?" he whispered, gently shaking his shoulder. "Hey, Dean, wake up!"

"Hmmm…S'mmy? It's three in the morning." Dean's voice was muffled by his pillow, which he had pulled over his head to muffle the sounds of the thunderstorm that had passed by not an hour earlier. "Just finally got to sleep, man. Go 'way."

"Dean, please. I need to talk."

Dean knew that voice. Immediately he sat up, trying to hold back the yawn, and moved to the side, patting the empty spot beside him. "Fine," he mumbled, "hop on. Tell Uncle Dean what the problem is."

"Shut up," Sam muttered, but gratefully sat on the empty spot beside his brother. "What's up, Sam? Nightmare?"

"No." Suddenly Sam clammed up, feeling rather foolish. He should've kept quiet. Dean had enough on his mind without his annoying little brother crying to him like a girl. Immediately Dean noticed his brother clam up, and gently lifted the boy's chin, staring into his hazel eyes. "You know I'll just find out sooner or later," he said softly. "So you may as well talk now while I'm willing." Sam smiled faintly, his brother's weak attempt at humour chipping away at the ice. He swallowed hard, and finally admitted his mixed feelings about firing a gun.

"I felt excited a bit, like you wanted me to. But I couldn't help but feel bad, too. I need to know this so I can hurt, Dean. So I can _kill._ I know, they're for monsters and not people, but doesn't mean I don't feel bad. But that' not the worst part."

"What is, Sammy?" Dean knew the kid was hurting, could tell all day. No ice cream sundaes or constant praise could mask the fact that beneath the thrill was that horrible anguish that he could now take a life. But there was more? What else could possibly be worse to the kid?

For a while, Sam remained silent, and Dean thought the kid was going to clam up on him; then, in a voice barely above a whisper: "I still want you to be proud of me. I was afraid that if you didn't see me all happy and excited, you'd think less of me."

Dean felt the familiar lump in his throat. Did he really think that? That he would think less of him for not being as eager as he had been? "Dammit Sammy, you don't have to worry about that. Not everyone's thrilled to have to fire a gun. I'll tell who a few: Bobby, Dad…and me."

Sam was incredulous at his brother's words. "Really? You were so excited to learn to shoot, and especially when I hit all the cans. Shouldn't you be happy?"

"God, no. I hate having to shoot a gun. I hate that I need to be able to fire a gun." _And I hate that you have to learn, too,_ he added mentally. "Just because I was happy for you doesn't mean I love weapon's training or owning a gun." Sam began to relax, sighing in relief. Dean wasn't mad. He didn't think less of him. 

"And I'll tell you something else," Dean continued, gently pulling the boy close. "I would never, _ever_ think less of you for not being as excited. I'm proud of you, no matter what you do, kid. Don't forget that."

"You mean it?"

"Damn straight. Now go back to bed, this little talk hit 'chick flick' territory a long time ago."

Sam nodded, hopping off Dean's bed and snuggling comfortably into his. Suddenly he felt very tired, his eyes heavy; sleep would be welcome. But before either brother succumbed to sleep's clutches, Sam's voice once again could be heard in the small room.

"Thanks, Dean."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: This one is for judyann, who requested "Dean teaching Sam to drive". I hope you enjoy it dear! A huge thanks to judyann, mandancie, twomoms, mb64, LilyBolt, and a Guest for your awesome reviews and overall interest in this little story. And thanks to those who have followed, favorited, or even just read this. It means a lot to me. And as always, I don't own the boys. All rights to Kripke and co.**

**Chapter 10 – Drive**

Sam felt his hands shake slightly with anticipation as he sat behind the wheel of the beautiful, sleek muscle car, the open window allowing in the soft spring breeze and the fragrant scent of wildflowers growing in the South Dakota plains. He could feel the leather on his back, the wheel of the car smooth beneath his grasp, the power of just being in control of the black beast. Or at least, soon to be. For the moment, the Impala remained idol as Sam just sat there, drinking in the moment. Beside him, Dean was grinning broadly, despite his slight anxiety and letting someone else other than him, or his father, drive his precious Baby. It thrilled him that Sam, even though he didn't nearly love the car as much as he did, was awestruck at the possibility of not only learning to drive, but learning on Dean's most prized possession.

It was Sam's birthday present from Dean: his first driving lesson, behind the wheel of the Impala, no less. Sam had been thrilled, and at the same time, petrified. What if he totalled it? On his first day behind the wheel, no less? He knew how much he loved him, would die for him, but somehow Sam had a gut feeling that should he be the cause of his Baby's destruction, not even brotherly love or whatever people called it would save his ass. But Dean (who had wrapped the spare key as a gift, a gesture his father had done for him when he had first bequeathed his son the car last year) had complete trust in him to not completely fuck up. _Ok, you can do this. Can't be that hard._

"First thing's first," Dean was saying, and quickly Sam snapped back to attention. "You need to know where your instruments are. Headlights, heater, radio…" Sam rolled his eyes as Dean grinned. Of course Dean would find it important where the radio dial was. "Got that?" he continued afterwards and Sam nodded. "Good. 'Cause you can't be driving after dark and have no fucking clue how to turn on your lights or your wipers. This," pointing to the specific area, "is where you pop your hood. I'll show you later how to check the oil and stuff."

"Dean, I've seen you work on this thing enough times. I think I can figure that out."

"Fine, smartass. Just don't come crying to me if you can't figure out how to check your damn oil." Sam shot one of his bitchfaces, and Dean backed off. "Ok, ok, guess you're anxious to actually start driving. Guess I don't need to tell you which pedal is gas and which is break."

Another glare from Sam.

"Fine, fine, just start the car then." Anxiety suddenly began to overwhelm Sam as he turned the ignition; the Impala roared into life. "Good. When you're stopped, the car is always in park. To shift gears, your foot needs to be on the brake. Otherwise you'll kill the transmission." Sam nodded, pressed the brake pedal, and shifted the car into drive. "Good. Now gently ease your foot on the gas." The car jerked forward, Sam having put a little too much pressure on the gas. "Whoa, not that much, Sammy!"

"Shit, I'm sorry!"

"Calm down, Sam. You're doing fine. You're too wound up. Just relax, ok? Your awesome big brother wouldn't have let you drive if you couldn't be trusted."

"What's with the first person, Dean?" But Sam could feel the corners of his mouth curling to a grin, and he began to relax. He could do this. He'd be fine. Dean was a great teacher, for all his big talk. He'd taught him to swim, fire a gun, and even the typical childhood milestones such as riding a bike, reading, tying his shoes. Of course he could teach him to drive.

"Let's try again," Dean continued. "Not so hard on the gas this time." Sam nodded, and gently eased his foot on the gas; slowly, smoothly, the car inched forward, and Sam grinned broadly. He was doing it! He was driving the Impala! Beside him, Dean was still smiling, but still completely in the zone. No celebrating yet. "Nice! You can pick up the speed a little there, Andretti." Sam nodded, hit the gas a bit more, and the sleek car began to pick up speed. For an hour or so, the lesson continued, around the empty parking lot, Sam grinning stupidly and Dean trying desperately to contain how excited he was for his little brother. Sam felt the spring breeze ruffling his hair, the warm sunshine on his face, could hear the gentle purr of the engine. He had never felt so alive, had so much power, in his short, fifteen years. It thrilled him, intoxicating, like a drug. And the icing on the cake was the fact that Dean, his older brother and best friend, was the one guiding him through the process.

"You did great, kid," Dean praised once the car had stopped, the engine off. "Think you could take it home?" Bobby's place was only a ten minute drive, and most of it was along dirt roads. The traffic was light, perfect for him to ease into life behind the wheel. Sam nodded, turning the key. The sense of freedom was overwhelming, and the fact that he was sharing the moment with Dean just made it all the more special. _I wonder if Dean felt that way. Dad taught him to drive, when he had the time. For the most part, he had been self-taught. Had he enjoyed the thrill of his first time behind the wheel? Had anyone been there to celebrate with him? To share that moment?_ Likely not. Sam sighed, pushing back the negative thoughts as he eased into traffic, suddenly nervous. But at one glance at Dean, who was nodding his encouragement (though no doubt still rather scared shitless he'd do something to the car, this _was_ Baby, after all) Sam felt his nerves settle, and he began to enjoy the drive. He'd actually done a fairly good job, weaving the car only slightly (no near misses, since the road was deserted); in fact, the only main issue was his inability to keep the car at a steady pace, but considering it was his first time, Sam was satisfied, and rather proud. And even though he never said anything, he could tell Dean was, too.

"You did a good job, Sammy," Dean told him later that evening. The brothers were sitting on the hood of the Impala, enjoying the sunset and sipping ice cold bottles of Coke. "You proved me right that I could trust you with her. Which is good thing, 'cause if I find a scratch later you'll be sorry."

"Yeah, sure." Sam sipped his soda, watching the sun sink beneath the horizon, casting beautiful shades of azure, gold and purple upon the horizon. For a few minutes they drank in silence, enjoying the beauty of the sunset. And then, Sam broke the silence.

"Thanks, Dean. I know you must've been nervous letting me drive the Impala. You don't let anyone drive it."

"Well, you're not just 'anyone'." Sam smiled, left it at that. They finished their drinks in comfortable silence; and as the first stars twinkled in the twilit sky, the brothers slowly made their way back to the house. Tomorrow would be another day; Sam would head back to the third school he'd been registered at since September; Dean would go back to helping his dad on the hunt. But for now, they were just two brothers, the biggest worry being whether or not Dean's car would get scratched or that Sam would now officially have to chip in towards gas money. There were no spirits, shifters, things that go bump in the night which needed to be taken care of.

It was perfect.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: This one is for mb64, who requested "Dean teaching Sam to read." Well, here it is, by request. I hope you like it! Thanks to purpleyellowbanana, mb64, LilyBolt, judyann, twomoms, BranchSuper, deanstheman, and mandancie for your recent reviews. You guys are awesome! Thank you also to those who have taken the time to read or favorite this too! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_** just borrowing the boys.**

**Chapter 11 – Teach Me**

The Minnesota blizzard howled outside, the wind moaning eerily outside the snow covered window pane. It was a Saturday afternoon, and Dean had been sitting lazily on the couch of the dingy motel room, moping that the storm had hit on a weekend and not a few days later. He hated his new school, had no real friends, and had a suspicion that his teacher was at least somewhat aware of the Winchesters' living situation. She had noticed his older clothing, the same outfit worn sometimes as often as three times a week, and the inevitable bruises that came with physical training; it wouldn't be long before a call to CPS would be issued. Needless to say, there was no love lost between Dean Winchester and Mrs. McBride, and any day away from that place was a bonus for the nine-year-old.

Sam, on the other hand, loved school. He was oblivious to the similar suspicions raised by his kindergarten teacher, Miss Phillips, and loved spending time with the other little boys and girls in his class. In fact, the only thing that bothered the boy was his difficulty with reading. This was the third school the Winchesters had transferred to since little Sam's first day, and he was rapidly falling behind. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't grasp the concept. He would return from school in tears, embarrassed to have made a mistake in class. He tried to cover up his difficulties by making up his own story based on the pictures, unaware that, in fact, this _was_ a step on the way to learning to read. But to the little five-year-old, it was a sign of defeat.

That snowy afternoon, as Dean complained and whined, and Dad sat in the corner, looking through those old papers he liked to read (_Daddy knows how to read. And I can't._), Sam timidly pulled a shiny, new book out of his knapsack and made his way over to the couch. He knew better than to ask Daddy, who would probably just get mad and say he was busy, so he decided that it would be better to go to Dean. Dean was like a daddy too. He had heard him say how he had changed Sam's poopy diapers when he was a baby, and how he had helped him learn to tie his shoes. It was Dean who almost always tucked him in bed, and gave him warm bubble baths, not once getting mad when Sam "accidentally" got him all wet. Of course Dean would teach him to read.

"Deanie?" Sam used the nickname he had recently coined his brother, after hearing the boy call him "Sammy" all the time. Dean looked up from where he had been trying to catch up on his homework. He was bored as hell, may as well get his math questions done. "Yeah, squirt, what's up?"

"Can…" Sam suddenly felt nervous. The book had been conveniently hidden behind his back, and now the child was looking down at his feet, suddenly interested in the little hole on the toe of his shoe. Dean arched an eyebrow; he knew the kid wanted something. But he didn't have to be so nervous. He'd do anything for his kid brother, and Sam knew it.

"It's ok, Sammy, you can tell me."

Sam nodded, slowly produced his book. It was a brand new copy of the classic Dr. Seuss, tale, _Green Eggs and Ham._ "Dean, could you teach me to read? Please?"

Dean felt his eyes mist over and he quickly blinked them away; he didn't want Sam to see him cry, and abandon his plan. It did upset Dean that their mom wasn't the one to teach him how to read. But it hurt even more that Dean hadn't been taught by their mother, either. Or even their dad. He had learned in school, since the Winchesters had stayed with Bobby and Dean had been fortunate enough to spend the majority of the year in one school. But Sam had never really had the opportunity; it bothered him that the child who actually loved school was struggling. At the very least Dean would be able to help him along.

"Sure, Sammy," Dean grinned, regaining his composure. He quickly slipped his worksheet in his binder and set it aside on the coffee table. "Hop up here, bro." Dean patted the empty spot on the couch and Sam eagerly climbed up beside his older brother, book in tow. "Ahh, Dr. Seuss, a classic!" Dean continued, and Sam giggled, snuggling next to his brother. "Do you know any of the words, Sammy?" he asked, and Sam pointed to the word "in". "Good!" Dean cheered. "Now this word is 'the'. See the "t" and "h" side by side?" Sam nodded. "Well, when you see that, you here the 'thh' sound. You try."

For a few minutes, Sam practiced pronouncing the word "the", and to Dean's credit, he didn't once crack up at the little boy's attempts, no matter how comical. The two sat for hours, going through the book and practicing the words on Sam's spelling list. By the time they had mastered it, Sam was beaming. "Awesome job, Sammy!" Dean cheered, high-fiving his little brother. Sam puffed his chest a little, proud of his achievement. Dean was proud of him! He could read a few more words than he could before! There was still a long way to go, of course, but Sam was well on his way to becoming a better reader.

"Hey, Sammmy. It stopped snowing. Wanna make a snowman?" Sam squealed in delight, immediately quieting down when he noticed the glare from John from the other end of the room. He had been eavesdropping on his sons during the reading session, and felt immensely proud of his youngest. Secretly, the hunter was hurt that Sam had gone to Dean before him, but was proud of Dean for helping the child in his literary endeavours. He smiled when Sam looked at him eagerly, awaiting John's permission. "Go, have fun, just stay in the front where I can see you." The two boys bundled up and headed out into the winter wonderland, Sam still on his high from his success.

And that night, as they sipped mugs of hot cocoa, for the first time, Sam read a story to Dean.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: For a guest, who requested "teen Sam afraid of needles". Well, here it is! I hope this is what you had in mind! Thanks for taking the time to read and review! Thank you LilyBolt, BranchSuper, flygirl33, deanstheman, twomoms, judyann, mandancie, and reannablue for your recent, awesome reviews! The encouragement is absolutely amazing! And thanks to those who took the time to read and favorite this story too, it means so much! And, of course, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_** sadly. Or the boys. Oh well. Note: *the joke provided during this chapter is courtesy of .**

**Chapter 12 – Point**

"Come on, Sam, the big bad nurse isn't going to kill you." Dean grinned wickedly as Sam sat on the hospital bed, sleeve rolled up, glaring at his older brother. "One word," he snarled at his older brother, face still white from the anxiety of the experience. "Dentist."

"Hey. Those guys are evil. Do you want some random guy's fingers prodding around in your damn mouth? C'mon!"

The Winchesters were in the sterile little room, Sam trying to calm his rapid heart rate, and Dean trying his best to be sympathetic, but unable to hold back just how fucking hilarious it was that a seventeen-year-old was petrified of needles. But this was absolutely necessary. After the last hunt, in an old, abandoned farmhouse, complete with rusty nails peeking from the floorboards, and the subsequent scrape on Sam's hand after a rather unpleasant experience with the ghostly farmer who resided there, a tetanus shot was a must. Dean had even had one too, just as a precaution, and had had his done first, in hopes of settling his brother's nerves. No dice, however, and Sam felt a wave of dizziness and nausea at the sight of the syringe in the nurse's gloved hand. "You'll just feel a pinch." Sam nodded, staring at the medical posters which decorated the walls of the exam room. Brightly colored images of the human prostate, ear drum, and even the gestation of a baby, from embryo to fetus, surrounded him, giving an air of coolness to the already stark room. Beside him, Dean was flipping the pages of an ancient _Reader's Digest,_ chuckling, no doubt, at the joke section. "Hey, Sammy, what does a vegan zombie eat? Graaaaaains."*

"You're an idiot."

"Come on, it's a little funny," Dean muttered, closing the magazine and tossing it haphazardly aside. The nurse gave Dean a little glare as he swabbed Sam's arm, preparing for the injection. "Ok, Sam, on one, two…"

Borrowing a phrase from his older brother: "sonofabitch!"

XXX

"Hey, Sam, you ok? You're quiet. More so even for you."

The brothers were sitting in a corner booth of a mom and pop place across the street from the clinic. For all his teasing, Dean knew that Sam had a fear of needles, though he couldn't figure out for the life of him where this came from, and was hoping that some rabbit food would cheer him up. Instead, Sam only picked at his lunch, pushing at his salad with his fork and occasionally nibbling at his chicken Caesar salad. Dean arched an eyebrow, surprised at Sam's behaviour. Yeah. He hated needles. What was there about the kid Dean didn't know? But for him to act this quiet after one? This was damn strange, even for Sam.

"Ok, Sam. Spill it. What's up?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit." I've known you since you were in diapers, Sam. I know when something is bugging you. Now tell me, or I tell everyone my vegan zombie joke. Actually, that's not a bad idea."

A small smile tugged at Sam's lips, and Dean sighed inwardly in relief. Ok, so he wasn't that off that one of his lame jokes wouldn't help. So far, so good.

And then, shot down. "I'd rather not talk about it."

Dean was undeterred by his brother's response. "Sam. I'm your brother. I'll get it out of you eventually. Why not save us both the trouble and tell me now? Who knows? It might make you feel better."

"I highly doubt that, Dean."

"Try me."

For a while, Sam remained quiet, spearing a crouton and staring at it, debating whether to try to eat and hope that Dean would back off. But after a few moments, he gave up, dropping his fork on his plate. "Fine," he muttered, not looking up from his lunch. "You win."

XXX

"_Dean!" Ten-year-old Sam squirmed in the grasp of the angry spirit, hazel eyes wet with tears as he struggled to free himself. Nearby, his big brother was secured to an ancient looking gurney, struggling with his bonds while the other spectre, the ghost of a crazed anesthesiologist known for giving his patients a lethal dose of the stuff, prepared a syringe. "You hurt my brother and I swear to God I'm going to KILL YOU!" Dean yelled, desperately trying to free himself from his bonds. It terrified him that it seemed very likely that this hunt wasn't going to end well. Dad had warned them not to try to get involved, but when John Winchester had failed to return, Dean had decided to take matters in his own hands: and of course, his orders to Sam to stay behind fell on deaf ears. Now Dad was still missing, Dean was about to be spirit chow, and Sam was in serious danger himself. Great. Fuciing-A._

"_Tsk, tsk, tsk," the needle wielding spirit replied, shaking his head solemnly. "Sorry, Dean, not happening. Daddy is gone, there's nobody to save you. So I'm going to kill your baby brother. And I'm going to make you watch. And after that, we're going to have a little fun." A sadistic grin spread across the ghost's face, and Dean fought back the urge to vomit. Instead, he spat in the face of the spectre. "Bite me."_

"_Don't you even TRY to talk back to me, you little worm! Or I'll kill him slowly." Gesturing to the terrified boy, still screaming his brother's name. _

"_I don't think so"_

_The spirit was interrupted by the sound of the gravelly voice. Immediately the syringe crashed to the floor. Turning quickly, the vengeful fucker was greeted by a very pissed off John Winchester, pistol in hand, eyes burning with hatred and fear for his sons. Sam's cries softened, and Dean grew limp in relief as the sound of a gunshot echoed in the room. The ghost at Dean's bedside screamed in pain, the syringe falling to the floor. Another quick shot and Sam was free, who scurried to his brother's side, helping his dad on the restraints securing his brother to the gurney. Several minutes later, he was free, and the Winchesters hurried to safety, Dean leaning against his father for support. "Come on, boys, we gotta get rid of these sonsofbitches NOW!"_

XXX

"Shit." Dean had been quiet as Sam retold the story of that night, his own lunch forgotten. He remembered that hunt, George Davidson, a serial killer who murdered patients on the table during surgery, and his brother, who had discovered his anesthesiologist's plan and kept it quiet. Dean had been very nearly killed; and Sam had been quiet for weeks afterward.

And it wasn't long afterwards that his kid brother had been afraid of needles.

"Shit," Dean repeated, catching on. "So that's why you're scared of needles, huh?"

"You were in trouble, about to die, and I couldn't do anything to stop it." Sam finally looked up, swallowing the lump forming from beneath his throat. "I'm sorry, Dean. I tried to help, but I just…" Biting his lower lip, Sam turned away, unable to face his brother.

"Damn it, Sam, that wasn't your fault. You were caught yourself, remember? I thought that damn ghost was going to…" Dean picked up his half-eaten burger, eyed it with disgust, took a small bite anyway. Sam nodded, knowing that his brother was trying to change the topic. Sam nodded, picked up his own fork, and nibbled away at his salad. The brothers ate in silence, the conversation pushed back, like other unpleasant memories. Tucked in the back of the mind, to be ignored but never really forgotten. The Winchester way.

The next time Sam went for an inoculation, Dean said nothing. But as Sam, nervous as ever, tried to swallow his anxiety, he could feel the comfort of his brother's hand on his shoulder.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: This one is for deanstheman, who requested a chapter about John giving Dean the Impala. Thanks for the request! Thanks also to mandancie, judyann, LilyBolt, firecracker189, mb64, twomoms, and reannablue for your recent reviews, as well as to those who have followed, favorited, or just read this. You guys are awesome! This is my most reviewed fic yet, so thank you so, so much! And as always, I don't own **_**Supernatural,**_ **all rights belong to Eric Kripke.**

**Chapter 13 – Thanks, Dad**

Dean awakened on his eighteenth birthday with a splitting headache, the early present left by the rugaru they had taken down the night before. The hunt had been pretty much a fiasco from the beginning, Dean having missed a vital clue in the creature's whereabouts, resulting in the rather hard bump in the back of his skull; a mild concussion, likely, and _definitely_ the mother of all headaches. Sam, of course (good ole' overprotective Sam) had nearly broken the record for youngest human being to have a coronary, and after finally regaining his cool (and, Dean had to admit proudly, saving his older brother's hide and helping Dad gank the motherfucker), had mother henned him to the point of being a major pain in the ass. Normally, Dean would have been frustrated at the extra care and attention (after all, he _had_ fucked up and had gotten himself in the whole mess in the first place), but at the cold look his Dad had given him, Sam's over protectiveness was welcoming. At least Sam cared, didn't bitch him out, giving him the lecture of how mistakes could be fatal, to always be on the ball, something could've happened to Sammy, and we always look out for Sammy. But John was right, and Dean knew it. Sure, the old man could have at least seemed a little concerned, but it was true that an honest mistake could be the matter of life or death. In this case, Dean had been lucky, and a bump on the head and a few sore muscles were the only injuries he had sustained. But things could have been _a lot_ worse.

"Hey, Dean, how you feelin'?" Dean sat up groggily to see Sam hand him over a steaming cup of coffee, black and strong, just the way you liked it. Beside him was a box of assorted donuts, ready to be devoured. "Though you might be hungry, and since it is your birthday…" He grinned as Dean reached for a Boston Cream and took a small sip of his coffee. "Thanks, Sammy."

Other than the pastries and coffee, as well as one of those dollar store novelty cards with a few bills slipped inside, Dean's birthday remained uneventful. John, though not as pissed as he had been the night before, did not even mention the date, seemed to have forgotten about it, instead declaring that the day be spent for research. Which, thanks to his massive headache, meant a day of lying in bed, with nothing to amuse him except for the television. "Daytime's finest," he muttered, slipping by re-runs of _Sally Jessy Raphael_ and _Judge Judy_ with distaste. "God, even research is better than this." John ignored his son's complaining, as he and his youngest continued to pour over thick tomes and newspaper articles. Sam, however, couldn't help but add a smart-ass reply: "I'll remember that for the next time."

Dean sighed, finally settled on a John Wayne western on AMC. He had never been one to care about birthdays for the most part, but it bothered him that his father hadn't even acknowledged the date. Was he really still upset at him from the night before? What kind of father would hold a grudge to the point of ignoring his kid on his goddamned _birthday?_ True, most kids were reprimanded for forgetting to take out the trash, or not cleaning the room, or staying past curfew. Not for nearly killing themselves and their families. But still…

Dean closed his eyes, hoping the throbbing in his temple would somehow dissipate. Despite the agony, he managed to fall into a dreamless sleep, John Wayne riding off into the sunset. He had only planned on resting his eyes, but when he awakens, the sun is well into the west, nearing sunset; the television is off, and the motel is empty. Fortunately, the headache is reduced to a dull throb, and a glass of water and a bottle of Aspirin wait on the nightstand. Gratefully he swallows a few capsules, chases it with the water (still cold). His father and Sam can't be that far. Probably out for a supper run. Sure enough, on the little table in the corner, in John's neat script, is a little note. _Bringing back pizza. Brought Sam. Be back soon. John. _

"Good," Dean muttered, slipping out of bed and heading for the bathroom for a nice, scalding shower. Gingerly he slid out of his sweats and boxers, pulled his tee over his head and stepped into the shower, indulging in the hot spray. Perhaps today wasn't such a bust after all. Dad at least was bringing home one of his favorites for supper, and hot showers _were_ a cure all. He grinned when he stepped out of the shower to the sound of the Impala's engine cutting outside the room. Good. He was starving. When he stepped into the room, however, he was not greeted by the warm aroma of cheese and pepperoni, but his father. In his hands was a small box, wrapped neatly in newspaper.

"I know I didn't bring supper," he interjected before Dean could speak, but I did get you a little something. You probably thought your old man forgot about your birthday, but I was waiting for it to be ready." Smiling one of the few rare John Winchester smiles, he handed Dean the little box. "Happy birthday, Son." Carefully, Dean opened the package, peered into the little box.

Inside was a set of keys, and a little note. Dean's eyes widened in surprise as he lifted the keys out gingerly, as if they were made of gold. "Dad, is this…"

"Yeah," John nodded. "They're keys to the Impala. I've been waiting on a friend of mine about getting a new truck, and just found out a few hours ago that it was a go. Felt like shit that I didn't have anything to give you this morning, was hoping you'd forgotten. Went with Sam to get that key made for you."

Dean looked up at his father, and then quickly turned away, blinking back tears. _No chick-flick moments, Dean._ When he had regained his composure, he looked up at is Dad again, this time eyes shining, a wide grin on his face. "This is awesome! Thanks, Dad!" He looked at his brother, who had been grinning like an idiot the entire time. "You were in on this, weren't you?"

"Damn right. You were so whiny though I almost spoiled it just to shut you up."

"Shut up, bitch, or else I won't be your chauffeur."

"Make me, jerk," Sam retorted affectionately.

Dean grinned back, reaching for his jacket. "Still starving. Let's say we get that pizza now, huh? I'll even buy."

Dean slid behind the wheel of the Impala, John riding shotgun and Sam in the backseat behind his brother. As Dean turned the engine, grinning at the sound of her. "Hey, Baby," he murmured affectionately, shifting the coal black beast into reverse. And as the three returned a half hour later, boxes of steaming pizza in tow, Dean relished in the fact that Sam and his father had not argued once all day. He smiled to himself, reaching for a slice of meat lovers. This would definitely be a birthday he would never forget.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: I know I've been a little behind on these one shots, I've been incredibly busy as of late. Thanks for sticking around though! This one is for****Lewlou15, who requested "Dean takes the Impala shortly after his sixteenth birthday. Dean drinks a beer (underage) and Sam has soda, and have their first ever conversation on the hood of the Impala under the stars." Well, here it is! Thanks for the great request! Huge thanks to BranchSuper, LilyBolt, twomoms, judyann, mb64, mandancie, and deanstheman for your recent reviews! And thank you to all who read, follow, or favorite my work as well. You are all awesome!**

**Chapter 14 – Starry Night**

Of course it was Dean's idea. Always one to go a little on the "wild side", drank a little too much even at the young age of sixteen (though never enough to arise suspicion to their father, of course), spent a lot of time with pretty girls (which, Sam had to admit, had made him rather jealous; the guy had gone from being at his side twenty-four seven to hardly home at all), and cut class practically on a daily basis. He had always been known as a sort of rebel, a nineties version of James Dean, complete with the cool ride (well, his _father's _cool ride which he had been known to "borrow" on a few occasions, though always without a scratch on her and a full tank of gas), whereas Sam was the epitome of the nerdy sidekick, complete with the mop of hair. In fact, he was only missing the bottle cap glasses. On many of Dean's wild excursions, Sam would finish his homework, or curl up with a good book. True, the kid _was_ only twelve, but still, other than hunting, those who didn't know Sam Winchester would easily assume that his life was quite dull.

Dean, despite his wild demeanor, had always considered Sam to be his number one priority, regarding his personal safety or otherwise. It didn't take long for him to see the disappointed looks when he snuck away to be with the latest junior or senior at the local high school, looks he was trying so hard to pass as cool. _He's sixteen,_ he'd told himself on more than one occasion. _Guy's into girls now. He doesn't want to hang around with his dory little brother._ But even when he tried to hide his bright eyes by burying his face into his textbook or staring at the TV, Dean knew. His big brother instincts were on overdrive; he saw that his little brother was hurting, and trying so hard to be tough about it.

It didn't take Dean long to pick up the phone and break off his date with Cindy Harrison. Sure, she was one of the hottest girls in school, the one who had agreed to the movie and some "alone time" after. But hot chicks were commonplace in Dean Winchester's point of view. And there was only one Sammy. Cindy was at first, upset, and then royally pissed, but Dean didn't care. He'd likely never remember her in a month or so, and yet he would never forget the way Sam's eyes lit up that February night when he suggested that they take the Impala for a spin.

"Seriously?" A wide grin spread across Sam's face and he dropped his history textbook haphazardly on the couch beside him.

"Damn right. Let's say we blow this place."

"Won't Dad be pissed that you're taking the Impala?" Suddenly a tad anxious; Dean quickly shrugged him off. "Nah, he's huntin' with Bobby, remember? Left the Impala for a reason."

"Yeah, just for emergencies." But Sam was smiling. Already he was reaching for is jacket, not noticing the bottles of Coke and Millers he had slipped behind his coat. A few minutes later, they were on the way, Dean singing loudly (and very off key) to AC/DC as Sam pretended to be irritated. But secretly, he was happier than he'd been in a long while. He was spending time with Dean, Dad wasn't around to force him into weapon's training or research…life was good.

They drove around the back roads for a while, stopping only for a bite to eat at a local burger joint, before Dean finally parked her on the side of a dirt road, near a farmer's field, the Nevada winds blowing at the ghosts of last year's crop. It was a beautiful winter night, the sky bright with stars. Sam stared at the vastness in wonder, drinking in the beauty of the scene. "Look, Dean!" he suddenly spoke up, pointing at one of the constellations. "See those three stars, lined together?"

"Yeah?" Dean didn't really care about astronomy, but Sam had taken an interest in the subject a year or so ago, and had always wanted to go star gazing with his older brother. Actually, Dean had forgotten. He looked down for a moment, ashamed, but had his gaze skyward before Sam could catch on. "What about it?"

"That's Orion."

"O-what now?"

"Orion." Sam rolled his eyes, but grinned at Dean, giving him a playful punch on the arm. "Dude, I can't believe you don't know about Orion."

"No, but I'm sure you're gonna tell me, Geek Boy." Sam stuck his tongue out at his brother, popping open the top to the Coke Dean had handed him. Dean had sat on the hood of the Impala, and Sam followed suit, taking a generous swig of his soda before continuing. "Well, Orion's a hunter. Well, a regular hunter. Those three stars together are his belt." He pointed to another constellation, identifying it as the Big Dipper. "It's called that 'cause it looks like a spoon. And there's another smaller one called the "Little Dipper."

For several minutes, Sam pointed out the different images in the night sky, Dean pretending to understand what his kid brother was talking about. What thrilled Dean, however, was the look on his little brother's face. It was literally glowing, and Dean smiled at the sight. For the first time in what seemed like ages, Sam was honestly happy. And so, for several minutes, the two just sat there, gazing at the beauty ahead, sipping their drinks slowly, savoring the moment. After a while, however, Sam was starting to look slightly uncomfortable. _Great,_ Dean thought, draining the last of his beer ._Must've done something to upset the kid._ For a moment, he considered saying something, hoping to get his brother to fess up to what was bugging him, but decided against it. Winchesters weren't known to be the sharing and caring type, after all, at least not from his father's generation. But before he could even change the subject, Sam finally spoke up, staring at his empty soda bottle.

"Thanks, Dean."

"Hey, no problem, dude. I had a good time learning about Oregon or whatever his name is."

"Orion," Sam ventured with a slight smile. "But that's not what I meant. I mean, yeah, this was awesome, I had a good time and all. Just…" He paused, peeling away at the label nervously. "Well, you always seem to be busy with girl stuff, and I get it. I really do. It's just that, you know, you used to spend time with me and now…" Sam blinked, trying to hide his rapidly forming tears. "I know, I'm almost twelve, I'm not really a kid and I can't really shadow my big brother anymore. But…" He was about to cry. Great. Eleven-year-olds don't cry because they can't hang out with their brothers anymore. But not many had relationships as tight as his was with Dean. "Just…yeah. Thanks for this. For spending time with me."

Dean could feel that familiar lump in his throat; following his brother's suit, he stared at the stars, not wanting to look Sam in the eye; an action synonymous with the brothers which would continue well into adulthood. After a few minutes, Sam spoke up timidly. "Say something, Dean."

"I'm sorry, Sammy. I know I should've spent more time with you. You're right, I do have the right to go out and have a little fun once in a while, but I guess I've been kind of frustrated, you know? With the job and all that shit. And I kinda vent by spending time with women and staying up all night. But you're having just as tough a time, kiddo. Sometimes I forget about that. And you don't really have the luxury to go out and have sex and all that." Sam grimaced at that, and Dean chuckled. "Wait till you're older, Sammy, then you'll change your mind." The two sat in silence again, this time slightly more comfortable. After a while, Dean continued. "So yeah, I sometimes need to be reminded that you're in the same boat. And that we should hang out more often."

"Yeah?" Sam was trying to sound casual, but Dean could see the sparkle in the boy's hazel eyes.

"Damn straight. You could teach me some more astrology stuff. It actually is kinda interesting."

The rest of the night, the two just talked, about school, the new Batman movie coming out that summer that they were both planning on somehow going to, anything but hunting and the increasing tensions between Sam and their dad. Finally, at around three that morning, Dean finally lifted a sleepy Sam into the backseat of the Impala and made their way back to the motel. Though he didn't know it at the time, this would be one of the best moments in Dean Winchester's life. And when he tucked his tired brother to bed that night, gently brushing aside a stray wave of hair from the boy's forehead, Dean felt, for the first time in months, at peace. Quietly, so as not to disturb his brother, Dean slipped into his own bed, relishing in the warmth of the covers around him. Turning to the sleeping form, he smiled.

"Night, Sammy," he whispered.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: I'd like to apologize for the wait for this chapter. Finished a nine day work stretch a few days ago and had really planned on vegging. And then, a one shot idea came that I felt that I had to write. But better late than never, I guess! This one is for mb64, who requested a while back a little Halloween tale about Sam wanting to go Trick-or-Treating, but Dean doesn't let him, knowing what monsters really lurk out there. I deliberately wanted to wait until Halloween, or at least a day or so ahead, to write this. So here it is! Thanks to LilyBolt, mb64, mandancie, twomoms, purpleyellowbanana, reannablue, BranchSuper, and Lewlou15 for making this my first ever 100 review story! WOOHOO! For those who know/follow me on this, this is a feat I honestly thought I'd never see (a 50 review story makes me excited) so to see my first ever 100+ review makes me very happy! Keep it up! ;) And as always, a huge thanks to those who take the time to even just read or follow/favorite this makes me very humble and happy! Lots of love!**

**Chapter 15 – It Was a Dark and Stormy Night…**

"But WHY Dean?" Seven-year-old Sam stomped his foot in frustration, tears of anger spilling from his hazel eyes. The child had never been one to throw temper tantrums (though his father and brother would be the first to contest that when he _did,_ they were hard core), but that morning, October 31st, the little boy was letting it all out, much to John's (and even the ever patient Dean's disgust), storming around the motel room like a wild beast. And all because both John and Dean had insisted the unthinkable: that Sam stay in from Trick-or-Treating that evening.

Though their dad hadn't really thought much past the whole "there are things out there that wouldn't look twice about gobbling up little boys for supper" thing, caring not that his child was upset, but safe, Dean had hated agreeing with John. Sam had looked up at his older brother expectantly, as if Dean's authority could easily overrule their own father's, but was greeted instead by Dean's knowing nod and soft "sorry Sammy." The look on the kid's face had nearly broken Dean's heart. First the wide eyes, then the quivering lower lip, and finally, the crocodile tears; it was a system Dean could recognize a mile away, considering he was still a boy only a few months shy of his twelfth birthday. But after a few minutes of intense whining and complaining, Dean had had enough. He had been about to yell at the boy, an action he knew he would regret immediately, but John at least saved him the trouble.

"THAT'S ENOUGH SAM!"

Both boys stood still; they knew their father's notorious drill sergeant voice. Immediately the tantrum stopped, though the tears still flowed, and for a moment, John felt terrible for having to refuse his son the simple right to go out that night. Damn, all he wanted to do was what every other little boy or girl would take for granted. But then again, most little boys and girls didn't know that those things that go bump in the night were real, and dangerous. To a little boy oblivious to that fact, however, it made absolutely no sense. And as if on cue, Sam dared to whisper: "why, Daddy? Was I a bad boy this year? Did I do something wrong?"

John felt his heart break even further, and buried his head in his research to keep his youngest from seeing the tears stinging his eyes. Dean would know how to handle this. And sure enough, the older boy knew exactly what to do.

"'Course not, Sammy!" Dean announced. "You're one of the greatest kids out there." And that was no lie. "We really wanted you to go out Trick-or Treating but no one nearby is giving out candy this year." Thank God the motel was isolated. If the kid had seen neighbouring kids dropping by with their buckets, his excuse would fail miserably. "Dad and I already checked. But guess what?" Sneaking a glance at their dad, who was completely absorbed in his work now, Dean carefully opened his jacket and pulled out several bags of assorted fun sized chocolate bars and candy he had managed to shoplift earlier that day. "Don't tell Dad," he whispered. "Our secret, ok Sammy?"

"Ok." A faint smile spread across his lips at the sight of the treats. At least he wouldn't be left out on that sense.

"But only a few at a time. Can't have you getting a tummy ache."

Again, Sam nodded, the smile wider and more natural. Score another one for Dean Winchester, the elder boy thought with relief.

"And guess what? You and I are gonna tell ghost stories!"

"Really?" Sam's eyes, already wide in anticipation, seemed to be huge as saucers now. Dean smiled, relieved that at least the kid might have a good Halloween after all. "Sure! I know lots an' lots of cool stories! We can make a tent with the blankets in the living room. How does that sound?

"Yeah!" By now Sam was hopping up and down with excitement, to the point where John gave them a warning glare before retreating back to the massive piles of books and newspaper articles before him. "Can't wait 'till they're old enough to help with this shit," he mumbled to himself, feeling the beginnings of a headache. Aloud, he said: "You can build your tent, just don't be really loud. I'm getting a bit of a headache, boys."

"Okay, Daddy," Sam whispered, running up to give his father a hug. "Hope you feel better." John smiled, the feeling of little arms grasping his leg melting his stern heart. "Thanks, Sammy," he replied, lifting the boy to his knees for a gentle hug. "Just don't eat all that candy Dean got you. Kid shouldn't have bothered, but since he was nice enough…"

"I won't, Daddy!" Sam giggled as John's five o'clock shadow brushed against his cheek. Already Sam was squirming to be let down, eager to get on with the tent making and ghost story fest, so John gently pulled away, watching as the boy bounded across the room. "Walking feet, Samuel Charles," John warned, and immediately the boy complied. He really was a good kid. But man, those tantrums were wicked.

And so the festivities began. And John, finding himself intrigued by his son's ingenuity in both organizing this for Sam, as well as coming up with the ghost stories, was secretly enjoying himself. For one, the research could wait. For hours, Dean spread tales of ghosts, goblins, and practically every supernatural creature imaginable, all slain by the intrepid knights, Sirs Samuel and Dean of Winchester (Sam couldn't help but giggle at that). The young boy was so intrigued, he forgot to come up with any spooky tales of his own, instead shoving more miniature Snickers bars than he was allowed into his mouth while Dean pretended not to notice and listening with wide eyed delight. When nine o'clock rolled around, and the brothers were still giggling and whispering from beneath the tent, John was tempted to put the excitement to an end. Sam was no doubt hyper from the astronomical sugar intake he had inhaled within the past few hours, and could use a warm bath to calm him down. But just as the hunter kneeled to pull away the blankets, he paused when he heard Dean's voice begin another tale. And John smiled. Very seldom were his boys able to just be kids. Their childhood had been robbed from them. One night wouldn't hurt. And so he stood quietly and backed away, grinning at his eldest's narration.

"It was a dark and stormy night…"


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N : For the awesome LilyBolt, who has been incredibly supportive of my writing! She wanted to see a chapter where Sam and Dean get into an epic fight, but end up making up at the end. I decided to go with Flagstaff for this one. I hope you like it, hun! Oh, and for those who don't read her work, seriously, I recommend you check it out because it is fantastic! Anyhoo, huge thanks to judyann, mandancie, LilyBolt, BranchSuper, InsertUnoriginalPenNameHere, lilliannaelizabeth, mb64, Lewlou15, purpleyellowbanana, twomoms, FraidyCat1234, and reannablue for your recent awesome reviews! Thanks also to those who simply take the time to favorite and/or just read this. It really makes my day!**

**Chapter 16 – Flagstaff**

He hadn't thought of the repercussions when he left that night. The only thing on Sam's mind was the prospect of freedom. No constant arguments (well, more like shouting matches if one wanted to be honest) with his father; no enduring those horrible expressions on Dean's face, ones torn with guilt. Because Sam knew damn well that he agreed with his father that Sam should stay in the so called "family business" but at the same time, sympathized with him, at least when the epic fights were concerned. Those pained looks were enough to haunt Sam at night, keeping him awake long after Dean and John had finally fallen asleep. It was enough to put strain on any sixteen-year-old, let alone one with as fucked up a life as Sam's was.

Sam's logic the night he finally decided to slip away had been, as he would admit later, rather twisted. Of course he wanted to leave the hunting world behind, have at least a _somewhat_ normal life, but he had also hoped that leaving would somehow make things better for the family unit in general. No Sam meant no fighting, and ultimately, no stress for Dean to have to endure. Of course, this ultimately would prove to make zero sense, and if Sam had been thinking a little clearer that night, he would have realized that leaving would be the last thing to make Dean Winchester happy. He had been drilled by his father to protect his younger sibling at all costs, and sneaking away at night, on Dean's watch no less, would accomplish exactly the opposite. But Sam would be the first to admit, long after the incident, that while Sam had admittedly enjoyed his temporary stint at normalcy, he would later come to regret the choices made that night.

But at the time, Sam was just a kid, eager to sneak off and enjoy his taste of the real world. As he carefully closed the motel room door behind him, Dean snoring away on the nearby bed, Sam felt his stomach knot in both anxiety and excitement. He was really doing this! He was going to be free. Carrying only the clothes on his back (and a few extra outfits packed in his duffle), a wad of cash stolen from the emergency stash, and a pounding heart, the teenager slipped away into the night, ready to face the newest adventure before him.

XXX

Dean's initial reaction had been anger.

He had awakened before dawn the night Sam had left, grumbling for Sam to turn up the damn heater in this piece of shit motel. When no response could be heard, he switched on the bedside lamp to find the room empty, no light seeping from beneath the bathroom door. A quick check proved that, in fact, the place was deserted, and a glance out the window confirmed that the Impala was parked where it had been left the night before, just outside the door. No note could be found, or any sign that Sam was only going to be out for an hour or so, and would be back with breakfast, and a _lot_ of explaining to do. But hours passed, and still no Sasquatch sauntering in the door, mumbling explanations as to why he had left.

That morning passed, the afternoon dragged, and finally evening shadows were beginning to sit, with still no sign of Sam. By this time Dean's anger had turned to full blown panic. Where was he? Had something nabbed him? Why hadn't he called? The only comfort Dean had was his brother's missing duffle, which at least brought the impression that Sam had left willingly, and hadn't been abducted. But knowing the fuglies they dealt with, a missing duffle could mean anything.

"Damn it, Sam, where are you?" Trying to swallow the fear welling in the pit of his stomach, Dean grabbed his keys and headed out to the waiting Impala. He had to find his brother. _Watch out for Sammy._ Well, he'd done a fine good job of that this time, huh?

Like he had with the Shtriga when Sam had been only a child.

Pushing the negative thoughts behind, Dean slid behind the wheel of the car and sped off into the night.

XXX

While Dean had been frantic, trying desperately to find his missing brother, Sam had been enjoying his freedom immensely. He had managed to find a piece of shit apartment in Flagstaff, horrendous living conditions, but with cheap rent and, best of all, the independence he craved. He'd run into a stray dog the first day, who had gravitated to the boy. Sam had felt that the animal, like himself, was a lost soul, looking for some form of comfort. Always a dog lover to begin with, the boy had quickly adopted the animal, whom he had christened Bones. Though, to be honest, one of the main reasons Sam had been so eager to take the dog was his slight homesickness. Not for his father, but for Dean. He had never slept in a separate room, let alone building, since his infancy; in fact, he could not remember a time at all when the two had had separate bedrooms. Bones, with his affectionate kisses and soft, brown eyes, helped to ease the sting of missing his brother.

But, homesick or not, there was no way Sam was heading back. Even with Dean at his side, John Winchester had always been there, always yelling and barking orders like the marine he really was at heart, always ready to help the "good son" and cast Sam away like yesterday's news. And as much as he loved Dean, it hurt to see him on his father's side.

"Well, fuck them, right Bonesey?" Giving the dog an affectionate scratch behind the ears, to which the animal responded with a quick lick of the tongue on Sam's hand. And so Sam had settled into his new life, living off cans of Mr. Pib and an endless array of Funyuns (to this day, Sam believed that those few weeks living off junk food had turned him off to the point of eating the "rabbit food" his brother was so fond of teasing him about), while his brother toyed with the possibility that his younger brother may not even be alive.

XXX

After well over a day of fruitless searching, Dean had finally called his father. This had been a last resort strategy, as initially, Dean believed he would be able to find Sam on his own. It had happened before, when his brother had slipped off, and usually, within twenty-four hours, the kid was safely tucked in bed. But thirty-six hours had passed, then thirty-seven, with still no sign of his brother. And so, anticipating the shouting match from his dad, Dean dialed his phone, heart heavy.

As expected, the initial reaction from John Winchester had been anger. "How the fuck did you let this happen, Dean? You were supposed to watch him! Damn it, son." Dean had hung his head in shame. His father was right. He _was_ supposed to have watching the kid. Now Sam was god knows where, and Dean could do nothing about it.

When the fourth day passed without any sign of Sam, John's diminishing anger had already been replaced by gut wrenching fear. Calls to virtually every one of his hunting contacts had all come up empty; no one had seen Sam Winchester, not even Bobby. Many had hinted that, perhaps, it was time to move no. Sam was gone, he wasn't coming back. But neither John, nor Dean, would accept that. They would find Sam. Dean was determined. He had failed at his job to keep an eye on the kid. He sure as fuck wasn't about to fail on finding him. After all, he was a Winchester.

XXX

Two weeks after he had first left, Sam had been lounging on his sofa, a box of half eaten pizza on the coffee table and Bones snoring comfortably at his feet. A football game had been playing on the ancient television, a set of rabbit ears perched on top of the unit, the reception snowy. But Sam hadn't cared. He'd endured the shitty picture quality gladly, as if he were watching on the latest state of the art colour set. He had not a care in the world, sipping soda and complaining at bogus calls from the ref.

The sound of something picking a lot startled him back to reality. He had been gone for a bit, but hunting instincts didn't just disappear overnight. Quietly, Sam stood up, eying the door with caution.

He did not expect to see his distraught looking brother standing there.

He looked like shit, Sam had to admit. Days worth of stubble, heavy bags under tired eyes. This definitely wasn't the cocky older brother he knew, ready with a smart ass comment or one of his trademark grins. This man looked exhausted, mentally and physically. Broken.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was barely above a whisper.

Dean said nothing, mossy green eyes filled with relief at seeing his brother. And then, in three quick bounds, he was at his brother's side, arms wrapped around him in a firm hug. "Thank God," he murmured, relishing in the sight of his younger brother, alive and well. For several moments, he hugged him, the overwhelming relief trumping any feelings of resentment. Sam was alive, breathing, _there._ The brother whom he had secretly feared to be dead was right there. The overwhelming relief was just too much.

It didn't take long for that relief to turn into anger.

"What the fuck, man?" Dean gestured at the disaster zone before him. "What is this?"

"My home, Dean."

"What did you just say?" In an eerily similar voice to their father.

"I said, this was my house."

Dean rubbed the back of his head in frustration, still eyeing the dump before him. "So, let me get this straight. You take off in the middle of the night, and settle _here?_"

"It was better than where I was before," Sam spat, eying Dean coldly. "At least here I wasn't forced into something I didn't want. At least I didn't have to listen to Dad bitch at me all the time."

Intense fury welled inside Dean as he stared at his brother. He'd left them because of _hunting?_ Because he couldn't get along with Dad? "Don't you realize what this stunt put us through?" Dean hissed, grabbing Sam by the collar of his shirt and pinning him to the wall. "For two weeks we thought you were dead, Sam. We looked all over the damn country for you. Shit, I thought that when we did, we'd be taking you home in a fucking pine box. And all because you didn't want to put up with Dad anymore? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

The words stung, like a slap across the face. Sam actually had gingerly laid a hand against a cheek, blinking away tears. He had never thought of that. That Dean would be worried sick about him. How could he have possibly forgotten that? But, even more surprising, his father had worried too.

"Really? Dad actually was worried?"

"Of course he was, Sam. What kind of father wouldn't worry about his son's safety?"

"The kind who thinks it's acceptable to drag his kids all over the goddamned country on some stupid vendetta. The one who hates his kid so much that he won't even accept that maybe, just maybe, he doesn't want to go in the family fucking business. The one who loves his firstborn more because he's the 'good little soldier.' So yeah, Dean, it's pretty understandable that I'd be kind of shocked that the man actually gave a shit."

Dean stared at his brother, dumbfounded. Did he really think John loved him less? Just because he wanted to keep his sons safe? Because he wanted him to be able to take care of himself once he was gone?

"Sam…"

But Sam was already grabbing his duffle, shoving his few worldly possessions inside and zipping it with vehemence. "Guess I'm going back, right?"

"Sam…"

"Let's just get it over with." He turned to the dog, giving him one last pat on the head. "Bye, Bones. See you around."

XXX

The ride back to the motel was excruciating. Dean drove in silence, not even bothering to turn on the radio to lighten the mood. Sam stared sullenly out the window, watching the raindrops slide along the pane; as a child he had followed those raindrops to the bottom, mesmerized by the patterns and paths taken by the little droplets as the slid down the glass. Tonight, the raindrops were comforting, calming. About half an hour into the drive, he could feel some of the anger recede, replaced only by a sense of shame. Not for his father; as expected, when Dean had called their dad with the news, the overwhelming relief to find his son safe was quickly replaced with the usual John Winchester rage. But Dean, the fuse from earlier spent, simply looked exhausted. He, too ,was going to get the shit from their father. And it was Sam's fault.

For several kilometers, the brothers continued their journey in silence, Sam drifting in and out of restless sleep. Finally, unable to take it any longer, Dean pulled on the shoulder, cut the engine. The sudden movement startled Sam into wakefulness.

"Dean…" he mumbled sleepily, rubbing his eyes as he had done as a child. But Dean had already left the car, was leaning against the hood, eyes staring ahead into the darkness. Sam followed suit, leaning beside his brother, arms wrapped around himself against the chill of the night air. For a moment, they said nothing, the awkward silence and tension heavy. After a few moments, however, Dean finally spoke up.

"I thought I'd lost you, Sammy," he murmured, not daring to look his brother in the eye. "For two weeks I thought you were dead. All I could think about was how I had failed at the one thing I was supposed to do."

"Watch out for Sammy."

Dean nodded, feeling a stray tear slide down his cheek. Quickly he wiped it away, before his brother could notice. "I have to look out for you. You're my little brother."

Very few words, but the effect was astronomical. Sam dared to glance at his brother, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I can look after myself, Dean."

"Yeah, but I'm your big brother. It's my job to watch your ass."

It was a faint attempt of humour, but Sam smiled. It meant that, at least in regards to his brother, things would be ok. It may take a while, and Sam was sure that there would be many nights that Dean would stay awake, on guard; making sure his kid brother didn't sneak out on him again. But for now, things were back to normal; well, for Winchester standards. Patting his brother gently on the leg, Sam looked down again, wiping his eyes with a slightly unsteady hand. "I'm sorry, Dean." He whispered.

There were no other words spoken. But when the brothers climbed back into the Impala and made their way back home, Sam couldn't help but smile faintly.

The radio was on.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Sorry for the mini hiatus, real life has a way of keeping the muse away. ;p All kidding aside, this one is for mb64, who had requested a while back a one shot about Sam's first experience witnessing Dean get severely hurt on a hunt. I tweaked it a little bit, making Sam about twelve or so for his first hunt. Hope you don't mind dear! Enjoy! As always, thank you so much judyann, mandancie, LilyBolt, mb64, Lewlou15, reannablue, and deanstheman for your recent awesome reviews! Thank you also to those who have favorited, followed, or even just read these, and all of my other fics. It means a lot! And now, without further ado…**

**Chapter 17 – Coming of Age**

When Sam had first noticed that their father seemed to be away more times than he was home, he was a preschooler. At first, it had never really bothered him; in the afternoon Dean came home from school and was always there, even if he did have to at least attempt his homework first; in the morning,he usually spent time with the neighbour, or any adult John Winchester could at least reasonably trust enough to care for his child while he was away on one of his "business trips", and instead of missing his dad, Sam longed for the hour Dean would walk through the door. He did notice his father's absence on holidays, such as his birthday, Dean's birthday, Father's Day and Christmas. Mother's Day was the worst, not because he remembered his mother (which he did not, and Dean _never_ wanted to talk about Mommy), and absences had been greatly noticed by the child then. Otherwise, the child tended to be upset mostly when his older brother wasn't around.

Sam was about seven when he started noticing that sometimes, when Dad came back from his trips, he looked hurt. Most of the time, it was nothing but a few scratches and bruises, with the occasional black eye or split lip. John had remained tight lipped about it all, but Dean had somehow come up with a believable excuse. Dad was a jack of all trades, doing odd jobs to help support the boys. One week, he participated in boxing; others, he was a painter and had fallen off the ladder; the excuses kept on piling up, and Sam had bought _most_ of them. A few times he thought the stories sounded a tad too unrealistic (he was very bright for a second grader, at least that was what Ms. Kinney had said), but had always said nothing. After all, Dean would never lie to him. He was his big brother; he could do no wrong in Sam's eyes.

It was Christmas Eve 1991, five months shy of his ninth birthday, when Sam learned the truth about their father. He had found Dad's journal, confronted Dean about it; and learned that practically every monster from his worst nightmares was real, and worse still, incredibly dangerous. Immediately Sam remembered the times their father would return from the hunt, broken physically as well as mentally. On many cases, Sam had watched (discreetly, of course) as John Winchester pried bullets from his bleeding body, patched up severe stab wounds, and sometimes pop dislocated shoulders back into place. It all made sense now. Those monsters had killed Mom. They could very easily kill Dad one day. And once Dean was allowed to hunt, they could kill him too.

The thought was too much to bear.

Sam was twelve and Dean sixteen when he went on his first hunt. It was a simple one, at least according to Sam and John. A salt and burn of a relatively non-violent spirit, perfect for the young boy to get his feet wet. A little boy who had died of cholera in the eighteenth century was known to be roaming the halls of an old Victorian on the outskirts of the border town of Derby Line, Vermont, lonely and in search of anyone who would be willing to play. The spectre was known to be seen bouncing his little red ball along the halls, with no intention of causing any willful harm. Very little threat to John or his sons, especially his youngest. Sam wasn't enthused; harmless or not, this was still a _ghost_ he was dealing with, and though he was far from scared, he was still wary. In his messed up family, _anything_ could happen.

"You ready to pop your hunting cherry, Sammy?" Dean teased, handing his little brother his loaded weapon. "Remember to keep the safety on until you're ready," John interjected. Sam rolled his eyes at his brother, but Dean knew that part of the action was on behalf of their father. "Yessir," he answered to his dad; to Dean: "Shut up, jerk."

Dean laughed, grabbing his own weapon and inspecting it before nodding in satisfaction and pulling out the extra materials needed from the trunk: gas, salt, a couple of shovels and flashlights. Check. "All righty then," he announced, shutting the Impala's trunk. "Let's go, Dan Aykroyd."

"Why do I hafta be Dan Aykroyd."

"'Cause I'm Bill Murray. And I'm the oldest."

"Boys." John's stern voice brought both boys back to attention. "This is serious. This is Sam's first hunt, and he needs to be sharp. No goofing off."

"Yessir," the brothers chorused.

"Good. Help me grab the gear and let's go."

Obediently the brothers grabbed each a shovel, flashlight, and the container of gas as John drew his weapon. The brothers followed their father the short distance to the small family plot behind the ancient house, eyes peeled for any sign of movement. The walk to the grave was uneventful, much to Sam's relief. Though he severely doubted it, the last thing he wanted to do was confront a spirit, harmless or otherwise. The grave was small, a decaying slab with a picture of a lamb etched in the stone, above the child's name and dates of birth and death. The plot was flanked by those of the boy's parents on the right, and grandparents on the left. It seemed like a close knit family.

"Poor kid," Dean murmured, reaching for his shovel and starting to dig, his father following suit. Sam's job for this hunt was to keep an eye out for any sign of trouble or danger, a job he would likely be holding until he was at least fourteen or fifteen. Not that Sam minded now. The last thing he wanted to do was partake in a wrestling match with a freaking ghost. Sighing to himself at the thought of his highly dysfunctional family, Sam continued his watch, gun drawn.

It happened so quickly. One minute, there was no one there, the next, Sam found himself thrown to the ground, weapon and flashlight falling to the grass, out of reach. In the distance, he could hear the frightened cries of his father and brother, amidst curses. "Fuck! We missed something. Goddamit!" And then, a loud thud as John Winchester was tossed one way, like a spent matchstick, his brother the other. Sam could hear his father groan in pain, could hear the gleeful laugh of the not so harmless spirit. But what frightened Sam the most was the fact that, from Dean's direction, he heard not a sound.

For a moment, Sam just stood there, frozen in fear. Dean was leaning against a nearby oak tree, unconscious, bleeding profusely from a blow to the head. Beside him, the image of a little boy, no more than eight or nine, leaned in, holding a baseball bat in his hands. "No one wants to play with me," the ghost replied in a matter of fact tone, as if it was perfectly normal for pissed off ghosts to attack people in the middle of the night. "I want to play with the boy." He pointed to where Sam was staring, petrified. The message was clear: eliminate Dean and John, and the spirit would be free to "play" with Sam forever. The child was paralyzed with fear, heart pounding in his chest wildly. _This_ was what he had feared the most: his father, his_ brother,_ in danger. And yet, as much as his brain, his _heart_, told him to do something, anything, his feet remained frozen in place.

And then, two words, a hiss from his brother just as the spirit raised his bat in anger: "run Sammy!"

_Run. _It was all it took for Sam to spring into action. Immediately Sam fired a carefully aimed shot at boy, who had been attacking his brother with a sharp sliver of broken glass. Immediately the ghost disappeared, and Sam and John, who had recovered somewhat from his injury, grabbed at the shovels and set to work. It was tough, heavy lifting for a preteen, but Sam worked diligently, occasionally firing off a round at the spirit as he dug. At one point, Sam once again found himself being shoved by the angry spectre, and every time the boy retaliated, helping his dad fire off rounds into the ghost as it attacked his brother. Finally, after what seemed like ages, John was pouring the gas and salt on the boy's corpse, lighting a match and dropping it into the grave. Almost immediately the apparition let out a wounded cry, its body engulfed in flames, before vanishing for good.

Once again, there was complete silence. Father and son quickly rushed to Dean's side, who remained unconscious beneath the ancient oak. Sam felt tears well into his hazel eyes as he leaned against the still form, checking for a pulse, like his dad and brother had taught him. It was there, but weak, thready. God, he was losing too much blood. Grateful for the first aid skills his father had drilled into him, Sam pulled off his brother's shirt and made a make shift tourniquet. _Thank God he only got him in the arm,_ he thought. Beside him, John watched in awe as his boy worked on his kid brother. This was a _twelve-year old! _ After a moment, however, he gently pushed the boy aside. "Go grab our stuff, Sammy, take it back to the Impala."

"But what about Dean?"

"Go, Sammy." In a no nonsense tone. Obediently Sam gathered what he could and made his way back to the waiting car, as John carried his bandaged, but still unconscious son behind. He knew that Dean would be ok, Sam had made sure of that. Now all that was left to do was get back to the motel, get his boy comfortable. Sam, however, despite his father's reassurances, refused to believe his brother was fine until he woke up. He sat in the back seat, with his brother, holding the boy's hand. The sight would have been ridiculous under normal circumstances, but John could only gaze from the rear-view mirror with pride. The kid may have hesitated a little at first, but his quick thinking had saved his older brother's life. He was also very proud of his firstborn as well; knowing how dire his situation was, he had still put Sammy first, ordering him to leave. As much as it saddened him to think that his boy would think so little of himself, the fact that he would do anything for his little brother was enough to make John Winchester nearly burst with pride. His boys would take care of each other. It was all he ever wanted of them.

XXX

When Dean came too, early morning rays of sun were peering from the cheap motel curtains. Green eyes slowly pried open, heavy, checking out his surroundings. His father was at the small table by the kitchenette, asleep, an untouched cup of coffee beside him. Outside, a few lone cars were whispering along the nearly deserted highway, early risers out for an early breakfast or off to work. And beside him, holding his hand, was his little brother, eyes wide with worry.

"Dean!" Sam called out, as loud as he dared, and a wide grin spread across his face.

"Yeah," he acknowledged, wincing from the pain of his pounding head. Of course he could probably add a freaking concussion to his stab wound. He opened his eyes a little wider, smiled at the sight of his little brother. Alive and well, with only a few bruises to his name. But he couldn't help but add: "you ok, Sammy?"

"I'm fine, Dean. Just a few bumps and scrapes. Nothing too serious. What about you, though? You ok?"

"You didn't run." Simple, in a voice filled not with anger or frustration, but sorrow, and a hint of fear.

"Couldn't," was Sam's matter of fact answer. "Not without my big brother."

Dean felt the familiar wetness beneath closed lids and groaned inwardly, still too weak to be able to hide how he was about to initiate the mother of all chick flick moments. How could he do that? How could Sam risk his life for his own? It was his job to protect his brother. He should have anticipated that the kid may be violent: _major rule of hunting – never assume anything._ Sam could have been seriously hurt, or even killed, and it was his fault. Fuck, the kid was too young to be hunting anyway. But Dad had insisted, and he had to follow his father's orders…

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

"What for? I'm the one who should be apologizing. I froze out there. I was just so scared, Dean. And then I saw that ghost attack you, and…"

"No, you did good, dude." Dean smiled weakly. "Guess you really popped your hunting cherry, now, huh?"

"Shut up, Dean." But Sam was smiling. Dean was safe, awake and joking, when he could have easily been dead now. And though his brother insisted that it wasn't his fault, that even if he hadn't hesitated the reaction would have been the same, Sam couldn't help but feel guilty, that if he had moved just a fraction of a second faster, his brother wouldn't have been hurt; and worse still, that if he had hesitated further, Dean would be dead now.

Sam sighed, letting go of his brother's hand. "Here, I'll get you some Aspirin."


End file.
